*L*>  ^v> 


THE  POEMS  OF 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


THE   POEMS 

OF 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

i  90  8 


COPYRIGHT,    l8S8,    1891,    1897,    JQOI,   AND    1905,    BY   EDMUND   C.   STEDMAN 
COPYRIGHT,    1908,   BY   LAURA    STEDMAN 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


OF  THIS  FIRST  EDITION  ONE  HUNDRED  COPIES 
HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  AND  BOUND  WHOLLY 
UNCUT  WITH  PAPER  LABEL 


PUBLISHERS'    NOTE 

IN  the  present  volume  are  collected  the  poems  formerly 
contained  in  the  Household  Edition  of  "Stedman's  Poetical 
Works  "  and  in  "  Poems  Now  First  Collected,"  together 
with  a  number  of  pieces  written  since  the  publication  of  the 
last-named  series.  Shortly  before  his  death  Mr.  Stedman 
gave  directions  for  the  preparation  of  a  new  volume,  to  con 
tain  all  the  poems  which  he  deemed  worthy  of  preservation, 
rearranged  according  to  subjects,  rather  than,  as  is  usual  in 
collections  of  the  kind,  in  the  order  of  their  original  publi 
cation.  The  editors,  in  accordance  with  these  instructions, 
have  grouped  the  various  poems,  related  either  by  subject  or 
by  the  occasion  which  produced  them,  in  eleven  sections. 
Thirteen  poems  published  in  previous  editions,  most  of 
them  juvenilia,  have  been  omitted  entirely,  and  three  others 
have  been  largely  pruned.  All  the  pieces  published  in 
"  Poems  Now  First  Collected  "  have  been  preserved,  and 
seventeen,  written  since  that  volume  was  issued,  have  been 
included  in  this  definitive  edition.  Among  the  latter  are 
"Mater  Coronata,"  the  "Hymn  of  the  West,"  "  H.  van 
D.,"  "To  Dr.  Waldstein  on  His  Proposal  to  Excavate 
Herculaneum,"  and  "John  Hay."  Translations  of  the 
thirteenth  and  a  part  of  the  tenth  idyls  of  Theocritus  have 
been  added,  not  only  because  of  their  beauty  and  the  faith 
fulness  of  the  rendering  from  the  Greek,  but  as  examples 
of  a  work  which  Mr.  Stedman  had  in  mind  to  do  and  had 
in  part  accomplished — a  metrical  version  of  the  Sicilian 
Poets,  Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Moschus.  He  was  prevented 
by  his  other  occupations  from  completing  the  work,  and 
the  two  fragments  here  given  are  the  only  ones  which  he 
left  in  shape  for  publication. 

October  5,  1908. 


51764426 


CONTENTS 

PAGH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH            ...  .    xiii 

IN   WAR  TIME 

How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry  .          .        3 

Sumter        ....  .          .            9 

Kearny  at  Seven  Pines    .           .           .  .           .11 

Wanted  —  A  Man 12 

Treason's  Last  Device     .          .  .          .      13 

Alice  of  Monmouth     ...  15 

Abraham  Lincoln    .          .          .          .  .          .60 

Gettysburg           ....  60 

POEMS  OF  MANHATTAN 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call  .          .     69 

Fuit  Ilium           .          .          .  •        .  .          .          74 

Bohemia  :   A  Pilgrimage            .          .  .          -77 
The  Ballad  of  Lager  Bier     ....          84 

Pan  in  Wall  Street            .          .          .  .           .90 

Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for  Gold  93 

The  Old  Picture-Dealer             .          .  .          .96 
The  Diamond  Wedding        ....          99 

POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

The  Doorstep          .          .          .          .  .          .109 

The  Old  Love  and  the  New          .  .no 

Country  Sleighing   .          .          .          .  .          .114 

The  Heart  of  New  England          .  .          .        116 
vii 


CONTENTS 

The  Lord's-Day  Gale      .           .          .  .           .119 

Witchcraft           .          .           .           .           .  .        1 24 

Cousin  Lucrece      .          .          .           .    ,  .127 

Huntington  House       .          .           .           .  .130 

POEMS  OF  OCCASION 

Round  the  Old  Board       .          .          .  .           .    135 

Meridian:   An  Old-Fashioned  Poem      .  .        136 

Yale  Ode  for  Commencement  Day  .  .           -    145 

Mater  Coronata            .          .          .          .  .146 

Dartmouth  Ode       .           .           .           .  .           .    152 

The  Old  Admiral         .          .          .          ,  .162 

Horace  Greeley       .           .           .           .  .           .164 

The  Monument  of  Greeley            .          .  .        167 

Custer  .           .           .           .          .           .  .           .172 

Corda  Concordia          .           .           .           .  173 

"Ubi  Sunt  Qui  Ante  Nos?"  .          .  .          .180 

Hawthorne          .          .          .          .          .  .183 

Ad  Vatem      .          .          .          .          .  «          .190 

Ad  Vigilem          .          .          .          .          .  .192 

u  Ergo  Iris  "  .  .....    192 

George  Arnold    .           .           .           .           .  193 

The  Death  of  Bryant       .          .          .  .          .194 

W.  W.      .          .' 198 

Byron   .           .           .           .          .          .  .          .198 

Ariel           .          .          .          .          .          .  .201 

Gifford .   205 

J.  G.  H 206 

On  a  Great  Man  whose  Mind  is  Clouding  .   207 

On  the  Death  of  an  Invincible  Soldier  .  .        207 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World         .  .          .    209 

Inscriptions                    .          .          •          .  .        210 
On  White  Carnations  Given  Me  for  My  Birthday   2 1 1 
viii 


CONTENTS 

To  Bayard  Taylor       .          .          .          .          .211 
To  W.  S 212 

Hymn  of  the  West      .          .          .          .          .212 

H.  van  D.  (A  Toast)     .          .          .          .          .213 

To  Dr.  Waldstein,  On  his  Proposal  to  Excavate 
Herculaneum  .          .          .          .          .214 

John  Hay      .          .          .          .          .          .          .216 

Homeward  Bound        .          .          .          .          .217 

My  Godchild  .          .          .          .          .          .219 

Written  at  the  Opening  of  a  House-Book       .        220 
70°  North      .......   220 

POEMS  OF  GREECE 

The  Reapers       ......        225 

Hylas    .          . 227 

The  Death  of  Agamemnon  (from  Homer)     .        230 
The  Death  of  Agamemnon  (from  Aischylos)     .    234 
Penelope         .......   240 

Alectryon  ......        243 

Crete    .  250 

News  from  Olympia   .          .          .          .          .251 

THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE 257 

POEMS  OF  NATURE 

The  Freshet        .          .  .          .          .          •        3°3 

The  Swallow  ......   306 

Refuge  in  Nature         .          .          .          .          .        306 

Surf 309 

Woods  and  Waters      .....        309 

The  Mountain        .          .          .          .          .  on 

Holyoke  Valley  .          .          .          .          .          .315 

Seeking  the  May-Flower  .          .          .          -317 

A  Sea-Change,  at  Kelp  Rock        .          .          .       319 
ix 


CONTENTS 

THE  CARIB  SEA 

Kennst  Du? 325 

Sargasso  Weed .327 

Castle  Island  Light 328 

Christophe           .                    .          .          .  332 

La  Source 333 

To  L.  H.  S 335 

Jamaica           ...                     ...  337 

Creole  Lover's  Song    .                               .  339 

The  Rose  and  the  Jasmine           ....  340 

Fern-Land  ...  -343 

Morgan            .          .                                                  .  347 

Captain  Francisca        .....  349 

Panama           .......  353 

Martinique  Idyl             .....  354 

Astra  Caeli 35 6 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS 

The  Singer     .          .          .          .          .          .          .   361 

Summer  Rain      .          .          .  .          .          .361 

Voice  of  the  Western  Wind    ....   362 

Apollo        ....  363 

Montagu         .  ....   363 

Jean  Prouvaire's  Song  at  the  Barricade  .          .        365 
Toujours  Amour     .          .          .          .          .          '3^8 

The  Tryst 369 

Violet  Eyes    .          ...          .          .  .   369 

At  Twilight         ...  -37° 

Autumn  Song          .          .          .          .  •   371 

What  the  Winds  Bring         ....        372 

The  Songster  ......   372 

Stanzas  for  Music         ...  .        376 

The  Flight  of  the  Birds 376 


CONTENTS 

Song  from  a  Drama     .          .          .          .          -377 

The  Sun-Dial          .          .          .          .         <.    ;      .   378 

Madrigal     .          .          .          .          .          .          •        379 

Nocturne        .....  .   980 

Guests  at  Yule    .          .          .          .          .          .381 

The  Pilgrims  ......   382 

Falstaff's  Song 382 

Provencal  Lovers    .          .          .          .          .          -383 
The  Wedding-Day      .          .          .          .          .385 

The  Dutch  Patrol 386 

Aaron  Burr's  Wooing  ....        389 

Centuria         .          .          .          .          .          .          .391 

VARIOUS  POEMS 

The  Descent  into  the  Crater    .          .          .          .  395 

Restraint    .......        397 

Heliotrope       ....  .  398 

Hope  Deferred   .          .          .          .          .          .        400 

A  Mother's  Picture          .....  400 

Amavi        .......        401 

The  Test       .......  402 

Estelle 403 

Edged  Tools .          .          .          .          .          .          .  406 

Anonyma  .......        407 

Spoken  at  Sea          ......  409 

The  Duke's  Exequy    .          .          .          .          .411 

Cuba     ........  413 

The  Comedian's  Last  Night          .          .          .414 
Le  Jour  du  Rossignol      .          .          .          .          .416 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth       .          .          .          .417 

Hypatia  419 

Sister  Beatrice     ......        422 

All  in  a  Lifetime     ......  429 

xi 


CONTENTS 

The  Skull  in  the  Gold  Drift          .  .       43° 

With  a  Sprig  of  Heather  .  433 

Music  at  Home .  »       434 

The  Hand  of  Lincoln     .  .  435 

Ye  Tombe  of  Ye  Poet  Chaucer    .  .        436 

The  Constant  Heart        .  .  439 

The  World  Well  Lost         .  -44° 

Hebe     .  -441 
Souvenir  de  Jeunesse  .                              •          •       444 

A  Vigil           .  -445 

The  Star  Bearer  •       447 

Eventide         .          .  •  449 

Helen  Keller       .  -       45° 

Portrait  (Time  Dame  Espagnole  .  45 l 
Harebell     .                                                         .  •       45  2 

Proem  to  A  Victorian  Anthology  .  454 
Proem  to  "  Poems  Now  First  Collected  "        .        454 

Father  Jardine  •  455 

Fin  de  Siecle       .  •       45 6 

SHADOW-LAND 

Darkness  and  the  Shadow  .  4DI 

The  Assault  by  Night           .  .461 

The  Sad  Bridal       .  -  463 

The  Discoverer  .                    .  •        4^3 

Mors  Benefica         .          .  •  465 

The  Undiscovered  Country  .       465 

INDEX  OF  TITLES           .  .  469 
INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES      .         .         .         .         .       473 


xn 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  was  the  elder  of  the  two 
sons  of  Edmund  Burke  Stedman  and  Elizabeth  Clementine 
Dodge  Stedman.  He  was  born  in  Hartford,  Connecticut, 
on  the  8th  day  of  October,  1833.  Of  his  father,  who  was 
a  major  in  the  militia  and  a  prosperous  lumber  merchant, 
there  are  few  traditions  extant,  as  he  died  in  his  thirty-fifth 
year,  after  less  than  five  years  of  married  life.  He  was  of 
good  New  England  stock,  and,  as  his  letters  show,  a  de 
voted  husband  and  father,  and  an  ardent  Christian,  typical 
of  an  era  when  the  religious  life  was  more  frankly  the  topic 
of  talk  and  letters  than  it  is  to-day.  Of  his  mother  we  know 
more.  Elizabeth  Dodge  Stedman  was  a  woman  whose 
beauty,  magnetism,  and  vital  charm  have  enriched  the  tra 
ditions  of  her  day.  A  poet  and  writer  of  great  promise,  if 
not  of  great  fulfilment,  vibrantly  sensitive  to  every  form  of 
artistic  expression,  a  temperamental  exaltee  of  the  first  rank, 
she  was  permitted  to  bequeath  to  her  son  that  combination 
of  qualities,  undefined  but  unmistakable,  which  the  world 
has  agreed  to  call  by  the  name  of  genius.  In  some  yet  un 
published  memoirs,  greatly  prized  in  the  family  annals,  she 
gives  a  charming  picture  of  the  dawning  of  the  poetic  im 
pulse  in  the  baby  Edmund :  "  He  was  a  remarkably  preco 
cious  child  from  birth,  and  a  very  strange  one.  As  soon  as 
he  could  speak  he  lisped  in  rhyme,  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
write,  which  was  at  the  age  of  six  years,  he  gave  shape  and 
measure  to  his  dreams.  He  was  a  sedate  and  solemn  baby, 
indeed  he  hardly  ever  even  smiled  in  babyhood  and  seldom 

xiii 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

cried.  When  he  was  between  five  and  six  years,  on  being 
put  to  bed  he  would  get  on  his  knees,  bury  his  head  in  the 
pillow,  and  if  told  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,  would  an 
swer,  '  Let  me  alone,  please,  the  poetry  is  coming/  " 

When  her  son  Edmund  was  six  years  old  Mrs.  Stedman 
married  again,  her  second  husband  being  the  Hon.  William 
Burnett  Kinney,  owner  of  the  Newark  "  Daily  Advertiser," 
who  was  shortly  after  appointed  Minister  to  Sardinia.  His 
wife  accompanied  him  on  his  mission,  leaving  her  two  little 
sons,  Edmund  and  Charles,  in  the  care  of  their  uncle, 
James  Stedman,  of  Norwich,  Connecticut.  Here  for  four 
teen  years,  and  until  his  emancipation  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
the  battle  was  fought  and  re-fought  between  the  just,  but 
exacting  and  hot-tempered,  guardian,  a  typical  New  Eng 
land  Puritan  of  the  last  century,  and  the  high-spirited  un 
tamable  lad,  with  his  sore  perception  of  an  alien  environ 
ment  and  his  defiant  struggles  for  ampler  breathing  space. 
Perhaps  some  such  beginning  as  this  was  inevitable,  and  it 
is  idle  to  speculate  what  different  results  a  different  milieu 
might  have  meant  for  the  strong-willed  boy.  It  may  be 
noted  in  passing  that  he  himself  never  alluded  to  those  days 
without  a  flash  of  that  spirit  which  renewed  his  youth  to  the 
last :  "  I  was  always  a  come-outer,"  he  would  say ;  "  they 
could  n't  do  anything  with  me  when  I  was  a  youngster, 
and  it  was  n't  all  beer  and  skittles  for  them  either  !  "  Per 
haps  pity  for  the  trials  of  embryo  genius  need  not  forbid  a 
pang  for  those  harsh  elders  of  a  sterner  day  than  ours,  for 
whom  truly  it  was  not  "all  beer  and  skittles." 

One  good  may  be  definitely  claimed  as  a  result  of  James 
Stedman's  rule.  The  knowledge  and  love  of  the  classics, 
both  ancient  and  modern,  which  his  nephew  carried  through 
life,  was  a  direct  result  of  his  fostering  care.  This  debt  was 
recognized  long  ago  by  the  late  Augustus  Rodney  Mac- 

xiv 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

donough,  in  an  article  appearing  in  the  old  u  Scribner's." 
"  Stedman's  English,"  he  said,  "  proves,  by  the  purity  of 
its  selection  and  the  neatness  and  conciseness  of  its  turn, 
that  if  the  literature  of  his  mother  tongue  made  any  part  of 
his  training, —  and  it  probably  did,  under  the  direction  of 
his  uncle,  who  was  a  scholar  and  a  jurist, —  he  was  guided 
to  the  fountain,  and  not  to  the  manufacturer's  rills."  His 
first  long  poem,  "  Purgatorio,"  written  for  the  Kappa  Sigma 
Theta  of  his  college  when  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age, 
although  rightfully  to  be  dismissed  under  the  head  of  "Ju 
venilia,"  is  a  rapid  fire  of  classical  allusion  mixed  with  the 
coterie-sprach  of  the  college,  curiously  mature  in  its  imma 
turity,  and  already  showing  that  security  of  beat  and  rhythm 
that  was  never  to  fail  him.  In  the  following  year  he  took 
the  first  prize  in  a  Yale  literary  competition,  with  a  poem 
in  twenty-nine  stanzas  entitled  "  Westminster  Abbey." 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  entered 
Yale  College.  He  was  suspended  at  the  end  of  his  Sopho 
more  year  for  a  prank  that  has  been  too  often  the  subject 
of  dark  allusion,  yet  one  so  forgivable  compared  with  many 
forms  of  youthful  outbreak,  that  after  all  these  years  it  calls 
for  no  veil  of  silence.  He  ran  away  with  a  travelling  theat 
rical  company,  taking,  it  is  said,  a  part  in  their  perform 
ances.  As  a  result  of  this  escapade  his  college  was  closed 
to  him,  though  his  love  for  her  never  weakened,  and  twenty 
years  later  she  was  proud  to  restore  her  brilliant  scapegoat 
to  his  class  membership  and  give  him  his  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts. 

After  a  period  of  private  study  under  a  tutor  in  North 
ampton,  he  returned  to  Norwich  and  founded  the  Norwich 
"Tribune,"  and  in  1853,  wnen  twenty  years  old,  he  mar 
ried  Laura  Hyde  Woodworth,  a  beautiful  girl  of  the  same 
age,  with  whom  he  lived  for  more  than  fifty  years  and  by 

xv 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

whom  he  had  two  sons,  one  of  whom  survived  him,  and  a 
daughter  who  died  in  infancy.  With  this  act  Stedman  took 
his  fate  into  his  own  hands ;  although  only  a  boy  in  years, 
he  had  given  hostages  to  fortune,  and  it  was  not  in  him  to 
cry  for  quarter.  In  1854  he  sold  out  his  interest  in  the 
"  Tribune  "  and  bought  the  Winsted  "Herald."  Of  this 
venture  Macdonough  says,  "  The  spirit  and  ingenuity  with 
which  Stedman  conducted  his  journal  and  the  novelty  of 
the  correct  literary  tone  which  he  took  pains  to  impart  to 
it,  earned  him  a  high  reputation  through  the  State."  In 
1855  he  sold  out  again  and  moved  to  New  York,  where  he 
soon  became  a  member  of  the  "Tribune  "  staff,  besides  con 
tributing  to  the  magazines  of  the  day.  When  the  war  broke 
out  he  went  to  the  front  for  two  years  as  special  corre 
spondent  for  the  "  World."  He  then  became  private  sec 
retary  to  Attorney-General  Bates  of  Lincoln's  Cabinet, 
combining  the  duties  of  this  post  with  the  study  of  law. 
This  proved  to  be  the  end  of  his  career  as  a  journalist.  At 
the  age  of  thirty  he  went  into  Wall  Street,  and  six  years 
later  became  a  member  of  the  New  York  Stock  Exchange. 
This  he  did  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  making  it  a  step 
ping-stone  to  the  literary  life.  To  quote  his  own  words, 
"  There  was  no  such  market  for  literary  wares  at  that  day 
as  has  since  arisen,  and  I  needed  to  be  independent  in  order 
to  write  and  study." 

This  deliberate  choice  by  Mr.  Stedman  of  a  twofold 
career,  so  divided  in  its  interests  and  apparently  so  antago 
nistic  in  its  claims  as  that  of  poet  and  banker,  has  given  rise 
to  some  critical  comment  from  a  portion  of  his  audience, 
who  have  chosen  to  see  in  it  a  species  of  spiritual  retreat. 
To  this  it  may  be  urged  that  Mr.  Stedman  was  essentially  a 
man  of  affairs  as  well  as  poet ;  he  was  endowed  with  unusual 
executive  powers,  and  in  becoming  a  financier  he  undoubt- 

xvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

edly  gave  scope  to  a  genuine  side  of  his  nature.  Further 
more,  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  "  made  good,"  and 
while  still  in  his  early  prime  had  reached  his  goal  —  the 
freedom  of  a  modest  competence  —  and  was  ready  to  devote 
the  remainder  of  his  days  to  literary  work.  This  plan  was 
frustrated  by  no  fault  of  his  own.  A  tragedy  of  errors  on 
the  part  of  one  in  whom  he  had  put  his  trust  undid  the  work 
of  years  and  sent  him  back  to  an  unravelled  task, —  sent 
him  back  with  unbroken  courage,  it  is  true,  but  with  less 
ened  strength  and  added  responsibilities.  If  character  is  to 
be  gauged  by  the  greater  tests,  then  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man  stands  high  indeed  among  his  fellows  for  the  fine  spirit 
with  which,  at  this  supreme  juncture,  he  accepted  failure  and 
rejected  defeat. 

Very  soon  after  his  arrival  in  New  York  the  young  writer 
began  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  reading  public  and  to 
make  friends  in  the  literary  Bohemia  of  that  day.  His  life 
long  friendships  with  Bayard  Taylor,  Stoddard,  Curtis,  Al- 
drich,  Howells,  Winter,  and  others  of  the  guild,  date  from 

this  time.    Three   poems   published   in   the  "  Tribune  " 

"The  Diamond  Wedding,"  "The  Ballad  of  Lager  Bier," 
and  "  How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry"  —  captured 
the  popular  fancy  with  their  young  gusto,  and  his  first  vol 
ume,  "  Poems,  Lyric  and  Idyllic,"  was  published  in  1860. 
Howells,  in  his  u  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintances," 
gives  a  sketch  of  Stedman  in  these  days  :  "  I  had  already 
met,  in  my  first  sojourn  in  the  capital,  a  young  journalist 
who  had  given  hostages  to  poetry,  and  whom  I  was  very 
glad  to  see  and  proud  to  know.  ...  I  sat  by  his  bed  while 
our  souls  launched  together  into  the  joyful  realms  of  hope 
and  praise.  In  him  I  found  the  quality  of  Boston,  the  honor 
and  passion  of  literature,  and  not  a  mere  pose  of  the  literary 
life ;  and  the  world  knows  without  my  telling  how  true  he 

xvii 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH 

has  been  to  his  ideal  of  it.  Afterwards  when  I  saw  him  afoot, 
I  found  him  of  a  worldly  splendor  in  dress  and  envied  him, 
as  much  as  I  could  envy  him  anything,  the  New  York  tailor 
whose  art  had  clothed  him.  I  had  a  New  York  tailor,  too, 
but  with  a  difference.  He  had  a  worldly  dash  along  with  his 
supermundane  gifts,  which  took  me  almost  as  much,  and  all 
the  more  because  I  could  see  that  he  valued  himself  nothing 
for  it.  He  was  all  for  literature  and  for  literary  men  as  the 
superior  of  every  one." 

Stedman's  first  book  was  followed  in  1864  by  "  Alice  of 
Monmouth,  an  Idyl  of  the  Great  War,  and  other  Poems," 
and  in  1869  by  "The  Blameless  Prince,  and  other  Poems." 
A  bare  enumeration  of  his  literary  output  from  this  time 
until  a  few  years  before  his  death  makes  the  fact  of  his 
divided  energy  seem  almost  incredible. 

The  "Complete  Poetical  Works"  appeared  in  1875; 
"  Hawthorne, and  other  Poems,  in  1877;  "Lyrics  and  Idyls, 
with  other  Poems,"  1879;  "  Poems  Now  First  Collected," 
1894  ;  "  Mater  Coronata,"  1900. 

His  principal  critical  works  were  "  Victorian  Poets,"  pub 
lished  in  1875  ;  "  Poets  of  America,"  1885  ;  "  The  Nature 
and  Elements  of  Poetry  "  (first  delivered  at  Johns  Hopkins 
University  as  the  inaugural  course  of  lectures  for  the  Turn- 
bull  Chair  of  Poetry,  and  repeated  at  Columbia  and  the  Uni 
versity  of  Pennsylvania),  1892. 

He  edited  (in  association  with  T.  B.  Aldrich)  "  Cameos 
from  the  Poems  of  Walter  Savage  Landor  "  ;  the  "  Poems 
of  Austin  Dobson  "  ;  a  "  Library  of  American  Literature  " 
in  eleven  volumes  (with  Ellen  M.  Hutchinson),  1888-89; 
"  The  Works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  "  in  ten  volumes  (with 
Professor  G.  E.  Woodberry),  1895;"  A  Victorian  Antho 
logy,"  1895  ;  "An  American  Anthology,"  1900. 

In  1891  Mr.  Stedman  succeeded  Mr.  Lowell  as  president 
xviii 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

of  the  American  Copyright  League.  He  also  served  as  presi 
dent  of  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  in  1904 
and  1905. 

In  1900,  after  thirty-one  years  of  occupancy,  Mr.  Sted- 
man  gave  up  his  seat  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  He  had  al 
ready  sold  his  town  house  and  bought  another  home,  named 
for  his  wife,  the  "  Casa  Laura,"  in  Lawrence  Park,  Bronx- 
ville,  a  suburb  of  New  York.  Increasing  years  and  failing 
health  forbade  the  daily  journey  to  and  fro,  and  half  impa 
tiently,  half  humorously,  he  conceded  that  it  was  "  time  to  be 
old  and  to  take  in  sail."  In  the  years  that  followed,  though 
the  zest  of  life  never  forsook  him,  the  hand  of  destiny 
weighed  heavy  upon  him.  Friend  after  friend  passed  away, 
and  each  passing  shook  him  sorely,  for  his  loyalties  were 
passions.  He  lost  his  wife  in  the  summer  of  1905  ;  his  eldest 
son  died  suddenly  six  months  later.  John  Hay,  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  all  lifelong  friends,  were 
taken  in  swift  succession.  Henry  Harland  and  William 
Sharp,  best  beloved  of  his  juniors,  fell  in  their  prime.  His 
superb  vitality  waned  visibly,  though  he  daily  urged  himself 
to  the  limit  of  his  failing  strength,  and,  well  or  ill,  in  work 
or  in  leisure,  to  one  claim  upon  him  he  offered  no  resistance, 

to  the  repeated  call  for  guidance  and  advice  from  those 

who  would  write.  The  young  writer,  and  especially  the 
young  poet,  found  in  him  a  tireless  friend.  Erring  perhaps, 
if  he  erred,  in  over-optimism,  the  very  fact  that  youth  would 
be  at  verse-making  endeared  it  to  him  ;  and  those  who  loved 
him  best,  loved  best  of  all  the  cordial  gravity  with  which 
he  took  every  manuscript  thrust  at  him  and  set  himself  to 
see  what  could  be  done  about  it.  The  tale  of  all  he  did 
about  it  will  be  fully  told  only  in  the  literary  output  of  the 
years  ahead  of  us,  for  he  never  missed  a  sign  of  promise,  and 
fundamentally,  for  all  his  leniency,  he  made  no  mistakes. 

xix 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

Soon  after  the  death  of  his  wife  Mr.  Stedman  moved  back 
to  New  York.  He  took  an  apartment  up-town  and  settled 
himself  for  the  last  time  with  his  beloved  books  around  him. 
Here,  in  spite  of  loss,  ill  health,  and  increasing  age,  he  en 
joyed  life  as  only  life's  inveterate  lovers  may,  and  at  the  end 
the  gods  were  kind.  There  came  three  or  four  days  and 
nights  of  unusual  well-being  and  high  spirits.  The  evening 
before  he  died  some  of  his  near  relatives  dined  with  him  and 
his  infectious  boyish  gayety  was  the  life  of  the  occasion. 
The  next  day,  after  a  morning  devoted  as  usual  to  literary 
work,  he  called  up  an  old  friend  over  the  telephone  and  de 
manded  that  he  dine  with  him,  on  the  plea  that  his  dinner 
was  to  be  an  unusually  good  one  that  night.  The  invitation 
was  accepted,  and  he  made  gleeful  preparation  for  an  even 
ing  of  the  reminiscent  talk  that  was  his  favorite  form  of 
entertainment.  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he  fell  with 
out  a  word.  "  Give  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day,"  he  had 
sung:  his  prayer  was  granted,  and  for  him  who  had  fenced 
with  death  so  long  and  with  such  gay  courage  the  end  came 
with  one  swift  stroke. 

LINDA  STEDMAN. 


IN   WAR   TIME 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S 
FERRY 

JOHN  BROWN  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee 

farmer, 

Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  freedom,  and  the  Border-strife 

grew  warmer, 

Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in  the 
night; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in  the  morning  —  to  find  his  house  burned 
down. 

Then  he    grasped    his  trusty  rifle  and    boldly  fought  for 

freedom ; 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading  band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven  help 

and  speed  'em  !  — 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the  curse 
that  blights  the  land ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us !  "   and  he  shoved  his 
ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day  and 

even, 

Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril ;  and  their  very  lives  seemed 
charmed, 

3 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Till   the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed    light  of 

Heaven,— 

In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed  all 
unarmed ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth,  and  frowned  a  terrible 
frown ! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy,  —  not  amid  the  heat 

of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare,  —  and  they  loaded 

him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad  their 

cattle, 

Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew  out 
his  brains; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's  ven 
geance  down. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed  and 

torn  him  so ; 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals ;  he  would  crush  it  day  and 

night ;  he 

Would   so  pursue  its   footsteps,  so  return   it    blow  for 
blow, 

That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in  town  ! 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and  his  wild  blue  eye 

grew  wilder, 

And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose,  snuffing  battle 
from  afar; 

4 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the   Kansas  strife 

waxed  milder, 

Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody  Border  War, 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare  and 
frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes  behind 

him, 
Slipt   off  into   Virginia,   where    the    statesmen    all    are 

born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one  knew  where 

to  find  him, 

Or  whether  he  'd   turned   parson,  or  was  jacketed  and 
shorn  j 

For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts   enough  to   wear  a  parson's 
gown. 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shovels, 

and  such  trifles ; 

But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  train, 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  well-beloved  Sharps 

rifles ; 

And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their   leader  thfere 
.  again. 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march  and  take 
the  town ! 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  negroes 

and  then  arm  them ; 

Carry  the  County  arid  the  State,  ay,  and  all  the  potent 
South. 


IN  WAR  TIME 

On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims  rise 

to  harm  them  — 

These   Virginians  !    who  believed  not,  nor  would  heed 
the  warning  mouth." 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not  John 
Brown." 

'T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of  a  Sun 
day: 
"  This  good  work,"  declared  the  captain,  "  shall  be  on  a 

holy  night !  " 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of  Mon 
day, 

With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Stephens,  fifteen  privates- 
black  and  white, 

Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched   across   the  bridged   Potomac,  and   knocked   the 
sentry  down; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets  a'nd 

the  cannon; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one  by 

one ; 

Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran  on, 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  daed  was 
done. 

Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took  the 
town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder  made  he; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's  coup 
d'etat. 

6 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY 

"  Cut  the  wires  !     Stop   the  rail-cars  !     Hold  the   streets 

and  bridges  !  "  said  he, 

Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  himself  for  guid 
ing  star, — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown ; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Then  was  riding  and  railroading  and  expressing  here  and 

thither; 
And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charlestown 

Volunteers, 
And  the  Shepherdstown   and  Winchester  Militia  hastened 

whither 

Old  Brown  was  said  to  muster  his  ten  thousand  grena 
diers. 

General  Brown  ! 
Osawatomie  Brown  !  ! 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was  pouring 
down. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some    prisoners  escaped  from    Old 

Brown's  durance, 

And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the  Chivalry  broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the  marvel 
lous  assurance  — 

Only  nineteen — thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive  them 
straight  about; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped  around  the 
town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned,  was  too 

risky; 

So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government  Ma 
rines, 

7 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their  souls  with 

Bourbon  whiskey, 

Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with  their  ladders 
and  machines  ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  brave  old 
crown. 

Tallyho !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying ! 
In   they   rushed   and   killed   the  game,  shooting   lustily 

away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too  late 

for  slaying, 

Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in  his  clay  ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them  laid 
him  down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels ;  how  they  hastened 

on  the  trial ; 

How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the  Charles- 
town  court-house  floor; 

How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them, — these  are  known 
the  country  o'er. 

"  Hang  Old  Brown, 

Osawatomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,  "  and  all  such  rebels  !  "  with  his  most  judi 
cial  frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it !   for  I  tell  you  that  the  flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old    Brown's  offspring,  was  first 

poured  by  Southern  hands; 

And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  like  the  red 
gore  of  the  dragon, 

8 


SUMTER 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your  slave- 
worn  lands  ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  've  nailed  his 
coffin  down  ! 

November,  1859. 


SUMTER 

APRIL   12,    1861 

CAME  the  morning  of  that  day 
When  the  God  to  whom  we  pray 
Gave  the  soul  of  Henry  Clay 

To  the  land ; 

How  we  loved  him,  living,  dying ! 
But  his  birthday  banners  flying 
Saw  us  asking  and  replying 

Hand  to  hand. 

For  we  knew  that  far  away, 
Round  the  fort  in  Charleston  Bay, 
Hung  the  dark  impending  fray, 

Soon  to  fall ; 

And  that  Sumter's  brave  defender 
Had  the  summons  to  surrender 
Seventy  loyal  hearts  and  tender, — 

(Those  were  all !) 

And  we  knew  the  April  sun 

Lit  the  length  of  many  a  gun,  — 

Hosts  of  batteries  to  the  one 

Island  crag: 

Guns  and  mortars  grimly  frowning, 
Johnson,  Moultrie,  Pinckney,  crowning, 
9 


IN  WAR  TIME 

And  ten  thousand  men  disowning 
The  old  flag. 

O,  the  fury  of  the  fight 

Even  then  was  at  its  height ! 

Yet  no  breath,  from  noon  till  night, 

Reached  us  here ; 
We  had  almost  ceased  to  wonder, 
And  the  day  had  faded  under, 
When  the  echo  of  the  thunder 

Filled  each  ear ! 

Then  our  hearts  more  fiercely  beat, 
As  we  crowded  on  the  street, 
Hot  to  gather  and  repeat 

All  the  tale; 

All  the  doubtful  chances  turning, 
Till  our  souls  with  shame  were  burning, 
As  if  twice  our  bitter  yearning 

Could  avail ! 

Who  had  fired  the  earliest  gun  ? 
Was  the  fort  by  traitors  won  ? 
Was  there  succor  ?   What  was  done 

Who  could  know  ? 

And  once  more  our  thoughts  would  wander 
To  the  gallant,  lone  commander, 
On  his  battered  ramparts  grander 

Than  the  foe. 

Not  too  long  the  brave  shall  wait : 
On  their  own  heads  be  their  fate, 
Who  against  the  hallowed  State 

Dare  begin  ; 

Flag  defied  and  compact  riven  ! 
In  the  record  of  high  Heaven 
How  shall  Southern  men  be  shriven 

For  the  sin  ? 
10 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 


KEARNY   AT    SEVEN   PINES 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 

That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and  Bir- 
ney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  highest, 

Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and 

pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest,  — 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven    Pines,  where  we   still   held   our 

ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder, — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign  : 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder, 

"There  's  the  devil's  own   fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line'" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed '   How  we  saw  his  blade 
brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left, —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth  ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  O,  anywhere  !    Forward !    'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel  : 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !  " 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried  ! 

ii 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 
The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride  ! 

Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 
Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drummer's 
sign,  — 

Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 
And  the  word  still  is  Forward  !  along  the  whole  line. 


WANTED— A  MAN 

BACK  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field 

Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost ; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 

Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 

Hark  to  their  echo,  as  it  crost 
The  Capital,  making  faces  wan  : 

"  End  this  murderous  holocaust ; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

44  Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician's  pen ; 

Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten, 
Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan ; 

Give  us  a  rallying-cry,  and  then, 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

44  No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 
Till  they  fall  like  ghosts  in  the  marshes  low, 
And  swamp-grass  covers  each  nameless  grave 
Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 
Aye  in  Disaster's  shameful  van  ; 

Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave  ;  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 
12 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE 

"  Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 

While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 

Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth,  — 
Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

'    Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 

Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 
Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ?  — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  ones  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ? 

What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 
In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran, 

From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  O,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 

Where  the  foeman's  fiercest  columns  are  ! 

O,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 
Cheering  for  every  sacred  star ' 
His  to  marshal  us  high  and  far; 

Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 

When  a  Hero  leads  the  Holy  War !  — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  !  " 

September  8,  1862. 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE 

SONS  of  New  England,  in  the  fray, 

Do  you  hear  the  clamor  behind  your  back  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  yelping  of  Blanche,  and  Tray, 
Sweetheart,  and  all  the  mongrel  pack  ? 

Girded  well  with  her  ocean  crags, 
Little  our  mother  heeds  their  noise ; 

13 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  crimsoned  flags : 
But  you  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 

Do  you  hear  them  say  that  the  patriot  fire 

Burns  on  her  altars  too  pure  and  bright, 
To  the  darkened  heavens  leaping  higher, 

Though  drenched  with  the  blood  of  every  fight ; 
That  in  the  light  of  its  searching  flame 

Treason  and  tyrants  stand  revealed, 
And  the  yielding  craven  is  put  to  shame, 

On  Capitol  floor  or  foughten  field  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  hissing  voice,  which  saith 

That  she  —  who  bore  through  all  the  land 
The  lyre  of  Freedom,  the  torch  of  Faith, 

And  young  Invention's  mystic  wand  — 
Should  gather  her  skirts  and  dwell  apart, 

With  hot  one  of  her  sisters  to  share  her  fate,  — 
A  Hagar,  wandering  sick  at  heart ; 

A  pariah,  bearing  the  Nation's  hate  ? 

Sons,  who  have  peopled  the  distant  West, 

And  planted  the  Pilgrim  vine  anew, 
Where,  by  a  richer  soil  carest, 

It  grows  as  ever  its  parent  grew, 
Say,  do  you  hear,  —  while  the  very  bells 

Of  your  churches  ring  with  her  ancient  voice, 
And  the  song  of  your  children  sweetly  tells 

How  true  was  the  land  of  your  fathers'  choice, 

Do  you  hear  the  traitors  who  bid  you  speak 
The  word  that  shall  sever  the  sacred  tie  ? 

And  ye,  who  dwell  by  the  golden  Peak, 
Has  the  subtle  whisper  glided  by  ? 

Has  it  crost  the  immemorial  plains, 
To  coasts  where  the  gray  Pacific  roars 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

And  the  Pilgrim  blood  in  the  people's  veins 
Is  pure  as  the  wealth  of  their  mountain  ores  ? 

Spirits  of  sons  who,  side  by  side, 

In  a  hundred  battles  fought  and  fell, 
Whom  now  no  East  and  West  divide, 

In  the  isles  where  the  shades  of  heroes  dwell ; 
Say,  has  it  reached  your  glorious  rest, 

And  ruffled  the  calm  which  crowns  you  there, 
The  shame  that  recreants  have  confest, 

The  plot  that  floats  in  the  troubled  air  ? 

Sons  of  New  England,  here  and  there, 

Wherever  men  are  still  holding  by 
The  honor  our  fathers  left  so  fair ! 

Say,  do  you  hear  the  cowards'  cry  f 
Crouching  among  her  grand  old  crags, 

Lightly  our  mother  heeds  their  noise, 
With  her  fond  eyes  fixed  on  distant  flags  ; 

But  you  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys? 

WASHINGTON,  January  19,  1863. 


ALICE    OF    MONMOUTH 

I 


HENDRICK  VAN  GHELT  of  Monmouth  shore, 
His  fame  still  rings  the  county  o'er! 
The  stock  that  he  raised,  the  stallion  he  rode, 
The  fertile  acres  his  farmers  sowed ; 
The  dinners  he  gave ;  the  yacht  which  lay 
At  his  fishing-dock  in  the  Lower  Bay; 
The  suits  he  waged,  through  many  a  year, 
For  a  rood  of  land  behind  his  pier, — 
15 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Of  these  the  chronicles  yet  remain 

From  Navesink  Heights  to  Freehold  Plain. 


The  Shrewsbury  people  in  autumn  help 

Their  sandy  toplands  with  marl  and  kelp, 

And  their  peach  and  apple  orchards  fill 

The  gurgling  va,ts  of  the  cross-road  mill. 

They  tell,  as  each  twirls  his  tavern-can, 

Wonderful  tales  of  that  stanch  old  man, 

And  they  boast,  of  the  draught  they  have    tasted  and 

smelt, 
"  'T  is  good  as  the  still  of  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt !  " 

3 

Were  he  alive,  and  at  his  prime, 

In  this,  our  boisterous  modern  time, 

He  would  surely  be,  as  he  could  not  then, 

A  stalwart  leader  of  mounted  men, — 

A  ranger,  shouting  his  battle-cry, 

Who  knew  how  to  fight  and  dared  to  die  ; 

And  the  fame  which  a  county's  limit  spanned 

Might  have  grown  a  legend  throughout  the  land. 


He  would  have  scoured  the  Valley  through, 
Doing  as  now  our  bravest  do ; 
Would  have  tried  rough-riding  on  the  border, 
Punishing  raider  and  marauder; 
With  bearded  Ashby  crossing  swords 
As  he  took  the  Shenandoah  fords ; 
Giving  bold  Stuart  a  bloody  chase 
Ere  he  reached  again  his  trysting-place. 
Horse  and  horseman  of  the  foe 
The  blast  of  his  bugle-charge  should  know, 
And  his  men  should  water  their  steeds,  at  will, 
From  the  banks  of  Southern  river  and  rill. 

16 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 


5 

How  many  are  there  of  us,  in  this 

Discordant  social  wilderness, 

Whose  thriftiest  scions  the  power  gain, 

Through  meet  conditions  of  sun  and  rain, 

To  yield,  on  the  fairest  blossoming  shoot, 

A  mellow  harvest  of  perfect  fruit  ? 

Fashioned  after  so  rare  a  type, 

How  should  his  life  grow  full  and  ripe, 

There,  in  the  passionless  haunts  of  Peace, 

Through  trade,  and  tillage,  and  wealth's  increase  ? 


But  at  his  manor-house  he  dwelt, 
And  royally  bore  the  name  Van  Ghelt ; 
Nor  found  a  larger  part  to  play 
Than  such  as  a  county  magnate  may : 
Ruling  the  hustings  as  he  would, 
Lord  of  the  rustic  neighborhood  ; 
With  potent  wishes  and  quiet  words 
Holding  an  undisputed  sway. 
The  broadest  meadows,  the  fattest  herds, 
The  fleetest  roadsters,  the  warmest  cheer, 
These  were  old  Hendrick's  many  a  year. 
Daughters  unto  his  hearthstone  came, 
And  a  son  —  to  keep  the  ancient  name. 

7 

Often,  perchance,  the  old  man's  eye 
From  a  seaward  casement  would  espy, 
Scanning  the  harborage  in  the  bay, 
A  ship  which  idly  at  anchor  lay ; 
Watching  her  as  she  rose  and  fell, 
Up  and  down,  with  the  evening  swell, 
Her  cordage  slackened,  her  sails  unbent, 
And  all  her  proud  life  somnolent. 

17 


IN  WAR  TIME 

And  perchance  he  thought  — "  My  life,  it  seems, 

Like  her,  unfreighted  with  aught  but  dreams ; 

Yet  I  feel  within  me  a  strength  to  dare 

Some  outward  voyage,  I  know  not  where  !  " 

But  the  forceful  impulse  wore  away 

In  the  common  life  of  every  day, 

And  for  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt  no  timely  hour 

Ruffled  the  calm  of  that  hidden  power ; 

Yet  in  the  prelude  of  my  song 

His  storied  presence  may  well  belong, 

As  a  Lombardy  poplar,  lithe  and  hoar, 

Stands  at  a  Monmouth  farmer's  door, 

Set  like  a  spire  against  the  sky, 

Marking  the  hours,  while  lover  and  maid 

Linger  long  in  its  stately  shade, 

And  round  its  summit  the  swallows  fly. 


II 


NATURE  a  devious  by-way  finds :  solve  me  her  secret  whim, 
That  the  seed  of  a  gnarled  oak  should   sprout  to  a  sapling 

straight  and  prim ; 
That  a  russet  should  grow  on  the   pippin   stock,  on   the 

garden-rose  a  brier ; 
That  a  stalwart  race,  in  old  Hendrick's  son,  should  smother 

its  wonted  fire. 

Hermann,  fond  of  his  book,  and  shirking  the  brawny  out 
door  sports ; 

Sent  to  college,  and  choosing  for  life  the  law  with  her  mouldy 
courts ; 

Proud)  and   of  tender  honor,  as  well  became  his   father's 
blood, 

But  with  cold  and  courtly  self-restraint  weighing  the  ill  and 
good ; 

I  o 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Wed  to   a   lady  whose   delicate  veins   that   molten   azure 

held, 
Ichor  of  equal  birth,  wherewith  our  gentry  their  couplings 

weld ; 

Viewing  his  father's  careless  modes  with  half  a  tolerant  eye, 
As  one  who  honors,  regretting  not,  old  fashions  passing  by. 

After  a  while  the  moment  came  when,  unto  the  son   and 

heir, 
A  son  and  heir  was  given   in  turn, —  a  moment  of  joy  and 

prayer  ; 
For  the  angel  who  guards  the  portals  twain  oped,  in  the 

self-same  breath, 
To  the  child  the  pearly  gate  of  life,  to  the  mother  the  gate 

of  death. 

Father,  and  son,  and  an  infant   plucking  the  daisies  over  a 

grave  : 
The  swell  of  a  boundless  surge  keeps  on,  wave   following 

after  wave ; 

Ever  the  tide  of  life  sets  toward  the  low  invisible  shore  : 
Whence  had  the  current  its  distant  source  ?   when  shall  it 

flow  no  more  ? 

2 

Nature's  serene  renewals,  that  make  the  scion  by  one  re 
move 

Bear  the  ancestral  blossom  and  thrive  as  the  forest  wilding 
throve ! 

Roseate  stream  of  life,  which  hides  the  course  its  ducts 
pursue, 

To  rise,  like  that  Sicilian  fount,  in  far-off  springs  anew  ! 

For  the  grandsire's  vigor,  rude  and  rare,  asleep  in  the   son 

had  lain, 
To  waken  in  Hugh,  the  grandson's  frame,  with  the  ancient 

force  again  ; 

19 


IN  WAR  TIME 

And  ere  the  boy,  said  the  Monmouth  wives,  had  grown  to 

his  seventh  year, 
Well  could  you   tell  whose  mantling  blood   swelled  in   his 

temples  clear. 

Tall,  and  bent  in  the  meeting  brows  j  swarthy  of  hair  and 
face; 

Shoulders  parting  square,  but  set  with  the  future  hunts 
man's  grace ; 

Eyes  alive  with  a  fire  which  yet  the  old  man's  visage  wore 

At  times,  like  the  flash  of  a  thunder-cloud  when  the  storm 
is  almost  o'er. 

3 

Toward  the   mettled   stripling,  then,  the  heart  of  the  old 

man  yearned ; 
And  thus  —  while  Hermann  Van  Ghelt  once  more,  with  a 

restless  hunger,  turned 
From  the  grave  of  her  who  died  so  young,  to  his  books  and 

lawyer's  gown, 
And  the  ceaseless  clangor  of  mind  with   mind   in  the  close 

and  wrangling  town  — 

They  two,  the  boy  and  the  grandsire,  lived  at  the  manor- 
house,  and  grew, 

The  one  to  all  manly  arts  apace,  the  other  a  youth  anew  — 

Pleased  with  the  boy's  free  spirit,  and  teaching  him,  step  by 
step,  to  wield 

The  mastery  over  living  things,  and  the  craft  of  flood  and  field. 

Apt,  indeed,  was  the  scholar ;  and  born  with  a  subtle  art  to 
gain 

The  love  of  all  dumb  creatures  at  will ;  now  lifting  himself, 
by  the  mane, 

Over  the  neck  of  the  three-year  colt,  for  a  random  bare 
back  ride, 

Now  chasing  the  waves  on  the  rifted  beach  at  the  turn  of 
the  evening  tide. 

20 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Proud,  in  sooth,  was  the  master :  the  youngster,  he  oft  and 

roundly  swore, 

Was  fit  for  the  life  of  a  gentleman  led  in  the  lusty  days  of  yore ! 
And  he  took  the  boy  wherever  he  drove, —  to  a  county  fair 

or  race  ; 
Gave  him  the  reins  and  watched  him  guide  the  span  at  a 

spanking  pace  ; 

Taught  him  the  sportsman's  keen  delight :  to  swallow  the 

air  of  morn, 
And  start  the  whistling  quail  that  hides  and   feeds  in  the 

dewy  corn  ; 
Or  in  clear  November  underwoods  to  bag  the  squirrels,  and 

flush 
The  brown-winged,  mottled  partridge  a-whir  from  her  nest 

in  the  tangled  brush  ; 

Taught  him  the  golden  harvest  laws,  and  the  signs  of  sun 

and  shower, 
And  the  thousand  beautiful  secret  ways  of  graft  and   fruit 

and  flower ; 
Set  him  straight  in  his  saddle,  and  cheered  him  galloping 

over  the  sand ; 
Sailed  with  him  to  the  fishing-shoals  and  placed  the  helm 

in  his  hand. 

Often  the  yacht,  with  all  sail  spread,  was  steered  by  the 

fearless  twain 

Around  the  beacon  of  Sandy  Hook,  and  out  in  the  open  main; 
Till  the  great  sea-surges  rolling  in,  as  south-by-east  they  wore, 
Lifted  the  bows  of  the  dancing  craft,  and  the  buoyant  hearts 

she  bore. 

But  in  dreamy  hours,  which  young  men  know,  Hugh  loved 
with  the  tide  to  float 

Far  up  the  deep,  dark-channeled  creeks,  alone  in  his  two- 
oared  boat ; 

21 


IN  WAR  TIME 

While  a  fiery  woven  tapestry  o'erhung  the  waters  low, 
The  warp  of  the  frosted  chestnut,  the  woof  with  maple  and 
birch  aglow; 

Picking  the  grapes  which  dangled  down ;  or  watching  the 

autumn  skies, 

The  osprey's  slow  imperial  swoop,  the  scrawny  heron's  rise  ; 
Nursing  a  longing  for  larger  life  than  circled  a  rural  home, 
An  instinct  of  leadership  within,  and  of  action  yet  to  come. 

4 
Curtain  of  shifting  seasons  dropt  on  moor  and  meadow  and 

hall, 
Open  your  random  vistas  of  changes  that  come  with  time 

to  all ! 
Hugh   grown   up    to    manhood  ;    foremost,   searching   t 

county  through, 

Of  the  Monmouth    youth,   in   birth   and   grace,  and   the 
strength  to  will  and  do. 

The  father,  past  the  prime  of  life,  and  his  temples  flecked 

with  toil, 
A  bookman  still,  and  leaving  to  Hugh  the  care  of  stock  and 

soil. 
Hendrick  Van  Ghelt,  a  bowed  old  man  in  a  fireside-corner 

chair, 

Counting   the   porcelain   Scripture   tiles  which   frame 
chimney  there,— 

The  shade  of  the  stalwart  gentleman  the  people  used  to 

know, 
Forgetful  of  half  the  present  scenes,  but  mindful  of 

Aroused^mayhap,  by  growing  murmurs  of  Southern  feud, 

that  came 
And  woke  anew  in  his  fading  eyes  a  spark  of  their  anci< 

flame. 

22 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 


5 

Gazing    on    such    a   group   as   this,  folds   of  the   curtain 

drop, 
Hiding  the  grandsire's  form  ;  and  the  wheels  of  the  sliding 

picture  stop. 
Gone,  that  stout  old   Hendrick,  at  last !   and  from  miles 

around  they  came, — 
Farmer,  and  squire,  and  whispering  youths,  recalling  his 

manhood's  fame. 

Dead  :  and  the  Van  Ghelt  manor  closed,  and  the  homestead 

acres  leased; 
For  their  owner  had  moved  more  near  the  town,  where  his 

daily  tasks  increased, 
Choosing  a  home  on  the  blue  Passaic,  whence  the  Newark 

spires  and  lights 
Were  seen,  and  over  the  salt  sea-marsh  the  shadows  of 

Bergen  Heights. 

Back  and  forth  from  his  city  work,  the  lawyer,  day  by 
day, 

With  the  press  of  eager  and  toiling  men,  followed  his  wonted 
way; 

And  Hugh,  —  he  dallied  with  life  at  home,  tending  the  gar 
den  and  grounds ; 

But  the  mansion  longed  for  a  woman's  voice  to  soften  its 
lonely  sounds. 

"  Hugh,"  said  Hermann  Van  Ghelt,  at  length,  "  choose  for 

yourself  a  wife, 
Comely,  and  good,  and  of  birth  to  match  the  mother  who 

gave  you  life. 
No  words  of  woman  have  charmed  my  ear  since  last  I 

heard  her  voice ; 
And  of  fairest  and  proudest  maids  her  son  should  make  a 

worthy  choice." 

23 


IN  WAR  TIME 

But  now  the  young  man's  wandering  heart  from  the  great 

world  turned  away, 
To  long  for  the  healthful  Monmouth  meads,  the  shores  of 

the  breezy  bay ; 
And  often  the  scenes  and  mates  he  knew  in  boyhood  he 

sought  again, 
And  roamed  through  the  well-known  woods,  and  lay  in  the 

grass  where  he  once  had  lain. 


Ill 

LADIES,  in  silks  and  laces, 

Lunching  with  lips  that  gleam, 

Know  you  aught  of  the  places 
Yielding  such  fruit  and  cream  ? 

South  from  your  harbor-islands 
Glisten  the  Monmouth  hills ; 

There  are  the  ocean  highlands, 
Lowland  meadows  and  rills, 

Berries  in  field  and  garden, 
Trees  with  their  fruitage  low, 

Maidens  (asking  your  pardon) 
Handsome  as  cities  show. 

Know  you  that,  night  and  morning, 

A  beautiful  water-fay, 
Covered  with  strange  adorning, 

Crosses  your  rippling  bay  ? 

Her  sides  are  white  and  sparkling; 

She  whistles  to  the  shore ; 
Behind,  her  hair  is  darkling, 

And  the  waters  part  before. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Lightly  the  waves  she  measures 
Up  to  the  wharves  of  the  town  ; 

There,  unlading  her  treasures, 
Lovingly  puts  them  down. 

Come  with  me,  ladies ;  cluster 
Here  on  the  western  pier ; 

Look  at  her  jewels'  lustre, 

Changed  with  the  changing  year ! 

First  of  the  months  to  woo  her, 
June  his  strawberries  flings 

Over  her  garniture, 

Bringing  her  exquisite  things ; 

Rifling  his  richest  casket ; 

Handing  her,  everywhere, 
Garnets  in  crate  and  basket ; 

Knowing  she  soon  will  wear 

Blackberry  jet  and  lava, 

Raspberries  ruby-red, 
Trinkets  that  August  gave  her, 

Over  her  toilet  spread. 

After  such  gifts  have  faded, 
Then  the  peaches  are  seen, — 

Coral  and  ivory  braided, 
Fit  for  an  Indian  queen. 

And  September  will  send  her, 
Proud  of  his  wealth,  and  bold, 

Melons  glowing  in  splendor, 
Emeralds  set  with  gold. 

So  she  glides  to  the  Narrows, 
Where  the  forts  are  astir : 
25 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Her  speed  is  a  shining  arrow's  ! 
Guns  are  silent  for  her. 

So  she  glides  to  the  ringing 
Bells  of  the  belfried  town, 

Kissing  the  wharves,  and  flinging 
All  of  her  jewels  down. 

Whence  she  gathers  her  riches, 
Ladies,  now  would  you  see  ? 

Leaving  your  city  niches, 
Wander  awhile  with  me. 


IV 


THE  strawberry-vines  lie  in  the  sun, 

Their  myriad  tendrils  twined  in  one; 

Spread  like  a  carpet  of  richest  dyes, 

The  strawberry-field  in  sunshine  lies. 

Each  timorous  berry,  blushing  red, 

Has  folded  the  leaves  above  her  head, 

The  dark  green  curtains  gemmed  with  dew ; 

But  each  blushful  berry,  peering  through, 

Shows  like  a  flock  of  the  underthread, — 

The  crimson  woof  of  a  downy  cloth 

Where  the  elves  may  kneel  and  plight  their  troth. 


Run  through  the  rustling  vines,  to  show 
Each  picker  an  even  space  to  go, 
Leaders  of  twinkling  cord  divide 
The  field  in  lanes  from  side  to  side; 
And  here  and  there  with  patient  care, 
Lifting  the  leafage  everywhere, 
Rural  maidens  and  mothers  dot 
26 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

The  velvet  of  the  strawberry-plot : 
Fair  and  freckled,  old  and  young, 
With  baskets  at  their  girdles  hung, 
Searching  the  plants  with  no  rude  haste 
Lest  berries  should  hang  unpicked,  and  waste 
Of  the  pulpy,  odorous,  hidden  quest, 
First  gift  of  the  fruity  months,  and  best. 

3 

Crates  of  the  laden  baskets  cool 
Under  the  trees  at  the  meadow's  edge, 
Covered  with  grass  and  dripping  sedge, 
And  lily-leaves  from  the  shaded  pool ; 
Filled,  and  ready  to  be  borne 
To  market  before  the  morrow  morn. 
Beside  them,  gazing  at  the  skies, 
Hour  after  hour  a  young  man  lies. 
From  the  hillside,  under  the  trees, 
He  looks  across  the  field,  and  sees 
The  waves  that  ever  beyond  it  climb, 
Whitening  the  rye-slope's  early  prime ; 
At  times  he  listens,  listlessly, 
To  the  tree-toad  singing  in  the  tree, 
Or  sees  the  catbird  peck  his  fill 
With  feathers  adroop  and  roguish  bill. 
But  often,  with  a  pleased  unrest, 
He  lifts  his  glances  to  the  west, 
Watching  the  kirtles,  red  and  blue, 
Which  cross  the  meadow  in  his  view ; 
And  he  hears,  anon,  the  busy  throng 
Sing  the  Strawberry-Pickers'  Song,  — 
From  the  far  hillside  comes  again 
An  echo  of  the  old-time  strain. 
Sweetly  the  group  their  cadence  keep ; 
Swiftly  their  hands  the  trailers  sweep ; 
The  vines  are  stripped  and  the  song  is  sung, 
A  joyous  labor  for  old  and  young ; 
27 


IN  WAR  TIME 

For  the  blithe  children,  gleaning  behind 
The  women,  marvellous  treasures  find. 

4 

From  the  workers  a  maiden  parts : 
The  baskets  at  her  waistband  shine 
With  berries  that  look  like  bleeding  hearts 
Of  a  hundred  lovers  at  her  shrine; 
No  Eastern  girl  were  girdled  so  well 
With  silken  belt  and  silver  bell. 
Her  slender  form  is  tall  and  strong; 
Her  voice  is  the  sweetest  in  the  song; 
Her  brown  hair,  fit  to  wear  a  crown, 
Loose  from  its  bonnet  ripples  down. 
Toward  the  crates,  that  lie  in  the  shade 
Of  the  chestnut  copse  at  the  edge  of  the  glade, 
She  moves  from  her  mates,  through  happy  rows 
Of  the  children  loving  her  as  she  goes. 
Alice,  our  Alice  !  one  and  all, 
Striving  to  stay  her  footsteps,  call 
(For  children  with  skilful  choice  dispense 
The  largesse  of  their  innocence); 
But  on,  with  a  sister's  smile,  she  moves 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  groves, 
And  deftly,  daintily,  one  by  one, 
Shelters  her  baskets  from  the  sun, 
Under  the  network,  fresh  and  cool, 
Of  lily-leaves  from  the  crystal  pool. 

5 

Turning  her  violet  eyes,  their  rays 
Glistened  full  in  the  young  man's  gaze ; 
And  each  at  each,  for  a  moment's  space, 
Looked  with  a  diffident  surprise. 
"  Heaven  !  "  thought  Hugh,  "what  artless  grace 
That  laborer's  daughter  glorifies  ! 
I  never  saw  a  fairer  face, 
28 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice ; 
And  oh  J   were  she  my  father's  choice, 
My  father's  choice  and  mine  were  one 
In  the  strawberry-field  and  morning  sun." 


LOVE,  from  that  summer  morn, 
Melting  the  souls  of  these  two; 
Love,  which  some  of  you  know 
Who  read  this  poem  to-day  — 
Is  it  the  same  desire, 
The  strong,  ineffable  joy, 
Which  Jacob  and  Rachel  felt, 
When  he  served  her  father  long  years, 
And  the  years  were  swift  as  days  — 
So  great  was  the  love  he  bore  ? 
Race,  advancing  with  time, 
Growing  in  thought  and  deed, 
Mastering  land  and  sea, 
Say,  does  the  heart  advance, 
Are  its  passions  more  pure  and  strong? 
They,  like  Nature,  remain, 
No  more  and  no  less  than  of  yore. 
Whoso  conquers  the  earth, 
Winning  its  riches  and  fame, 
Comes  to  the  evening  at  last, 
The  sunset  of  threescore  years, 
Confessing  that  Love  was  real, 
All  the  rest  was  a  dream  ! 
The  sum  of  his  gains  is  dross ; 
The  song  in  his  praise  is  mute; 
The  wreath  of  his  laurels  fades  : 
But  the  kiss  of  his  early  love 
Still  burns  on  his  trembling  lip, 
The  spirit  of  one  he  loved 
29 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Hallows  his  dreams  at  night. 
A  little  while,  and  the  scenes 
Of  the  play  of  Life  are  closed; 
Come,  let  us  rest  an  hour, 
And  by  the  pleasant  streams, 
Under  the  fresh,  green  trees, 
Let  us  walk  hand  and  hand, 
And  think  of  the  days  that  were. 


VI 

i 

ON  river  and  height  and  salty  moors  the  haze  of  autumn  fell, 

And  the  cloud  of  a  troubled  joy  enwrapt  the  face  of  Hugh 
as  well,  — 

The  spell  of  a  secret  haunt  that  far  from  home  his  foot 
steps  drew; 

A  love  which  over  the  brow  of  youth  the  mask  of  man 
hood  threw. 

Birds  of  the  air  to  the  father,  at  length,  the  common  rumor 
brought : 

«  Your  son,"  they  sang,  "  in  the  cunning  toils  of  a  rustic 
lass  is  caught!" 

"  A  fit  betrothal,"  the  lawyer  said,  "  must  make  these  fol 
lies  cease ; 

Which  shall  it  be? — the  banker's  ward  ?- -Edith,  the 
judge's  niece  ?  " 

«  Father,  I  pray  "  —  said  Hugh.     «  O  yes  !  "  out-leapt  the 

other's  mood, 

"I  hear  of  your  wanton  loiterings;  they  ill  become  your  blood! 
If  you  hold  our  name  at  such  light  worth,  forbear  to  darken 

the  life 

Of  this  Alice  Dale"          «  No,  Alice  Van  Ghelt  !   father, 
she  is  my  wife." 

30 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 


2 

Worldlings,  who  say  the  eagle  should  mate  with  eagle,  after 

his  kind, 
Nor  have  learned  from  what  far  and  diverse  cliffs  the  twain 

each  other  find, 

Yours  is  the  old,  old  story,  of  age  forgetting  its  wiser  youth  ; 
Of  eyes  which  are  keen  for  others'  good  and  blind  to  an 

inward  truth. 

But  the  pride  which  closed  the  father's  doors  swelled  in  the 

young  man's  veins, 
And  he  led  his  bride,  in  the  sight  of  all,  through  the  pleasant 

Monmouth  lanes, 
To  the  little  farm  his   grandsire  gave,   years   since,  for  a 

birthday  gift : 
Unto  such  havens  unforeseen  the  barks  of  our  fortune  drift ! 

There,  for  a  happy  pastoral  year,  he  tilled  the  teeming  field, 

Scattered  the  marl  above  his  land,  and  gathered  the  or 
chard's  yield  ; 

And  Alice,  in  fair  and  simple  guise,  kissed  him  at  evenfall ; 

And  her  face  was  to  him  an  angel's  face,  and  love  was  all 
in  all. 

—  What  is  this  light  in  the  southern  sky,  painting  a   red 

alarm  ? 
What  is  this  trumpet  call,  which  sounds  through  peaceful 

village  and  farm, — 

Jarring  the  sweet  idyllic  rest,  stilling  the  children's  throng, 
Hushing  the  cricket  on  the  hearth,  and  the  lovers'  evening 

song  ? 


IN  WAR  TIME 
VII 


WAR  !  war  !  war ! 

Manning  of  forts  on  land  and  ships  for  sea; 
Innumerous  lips  that  speak  the  righteous  wrath 
Of  days  which  have  been  and  again  may  be  ; 
Flashing  of  tender  eyes  disdaining  tears  ; 
A  pause  of  men  with  indrawn  breath, 
Knowing  it  awful  for  the  people's  will 
Thus,  thus  to  end  the  mellow  years 
Of  harvest,  growth,  prosperity, 
And  bring  the  years  of  famine,  fire,  and  death, 
Though  fear  and  a  nation's  shame  are  more  awful  still. 


War  !  war  !   war ! 

A  thundercloud  in  the  South  in  the  early  Spring ;  — 
The  launch  of  a  thunderbolt ;  and  then, 
With  one  red  flare,  the  lightning  stretched  its  wing, 
And  a  rolling  echo  roused  a  million  men  ! 

Then  the  ploughman  left  his  field ; 

The  smith,  at  his  clanging  forge, 

Forged  him  a  sword  to  wield. 

From  meadow,  and  mountain-gorge, 

And  the  Western  plains,  they  came, 

Fronting  the  storm  and  flame. 
War  !  war  !  war  1 
Heaven  aid  the  right ! 

God  nerve  the  hero's  arm  in  the  fearful  fight ! 
God  send  the  women  sleep,  in  the  long,  long  night, 
When  the  breasts  on  whose  strength  they  leaned  shall  heave 
no  more  ! 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 
VIII 


SPAKE  each  mother  to  her  son, 
Ere  an  ancient  field  was  won: 
"  Spartan,  who  me  your  mother  call, 
Our  country  is  mother  of  us  all ; 
In  her  you  breathe,  and  move,  and  are. 
In  peace,  for  her  to  live  —  in  war, 
For  her  to  die  —  is,  gloriously, 
A  patriot  to  live  and  die !  " 


The  times  are  now  as  grand  as  then 
With  dauntless  women,  earnest  men  ; 
For  thus  the  mothers  whom  we  know 
Bade  their  sons  to  battle  go ; 
And,  with  a  smile,  the  loyal  North 
Sent  her  million  freemen  forth. 

3 

"What  men  should  stronger-hearted  be 
Than  we,  who  dwell  by  the  open  sea, 
Tilling  the  lands  our  fathers  won 
In  battle  on  the  Monmouth  Plains  ? 
Ah  !  a  memory  remains, 
Telling  us  what  they  have  done, 
Teaching  us  what  we  should  do. 
Let  us  send  our  rightful  share,^- 
Hard-handed  yeomen,  horsemen  rare, 
A  hundred  riders  fleet  and  true." 

4 

A  hundred  horsemen,  led  by  Hugh  : 
"  Were  he  still  here,"  their  captain  thought, 
u  The  brave  old  man  who  trained  my  youth, 
33 


IN  WAR  TIME 

What  a  leader  he  would  make 
Where  the  battle's  topmost  billows  break  ! 
The  crimes  which  brought  our  land  to  ruth, 
How  in  his  soul  they  would  have  wrought! 
God  help  me,  no  deed  of  mine  shall  shame 
The  honor  of  my  grandsire's  name ; 
And  my  father  shall  see  how  pure  and  good 
Runs  in  these  veins  the  olden  blood." 

5 

Shore  and  inland  their  men  have  sent : 
Away,  to  the  mountain  regiment, 
The  silver-hazed  Potomac  heights, 
The  circling  raids,  the  hundred  fights, 
The  booth,  the  bivouac,  the  tent. 
Away,  from  the  happy  Monmouth  farms, 
To  noontide  marches,  night  alarms, 
Death  in  the  shadowy  oaken  glades, 
Emptied  saddles,  broken  blades, — 
All  the  turmoil  that  soldiers  know 
Who  gallop  to  meet  a  mortal  foe, 
Some  to  conquer,  some  to  fall  : 
War  hath  its  chances  for  one  and  all. 


Heroes,  who  render  up  their  lives 
On  the  country's  fiery  altar-stone  — 
They  do  not  offer  themselves  alone. 
What  shall  become  of  the  soldiers'  wives  ? 
They  stay  behind  in  the  lonely  cots, 
Weeding  the  humble  garden-plots  ; 
Some  to  speed  the  needle  and  thread, 
For  the  soldiers'  children  must  be  fed ; 
All  to  sigh,  through  the  toilsome  day, 
And  at  night  teach  lisping  lips  to  pray 
For  the  fathers  marching  far  away. 


34 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 
IX 


CLOUD  and  flame  on  the  dark  frontier, 
Veiling  the  hosts  embattled  there  : 
Peace,  and  a  boding  stillness,  here, 
Where  the  wives  at  home  repeat  their  prayer. 


The  weary  August  days  are  long; 
The  locusts  sing  a  plaintive  song, 
The  cattle  miss  their  master's  call 
When  they  see  the  sunset  shadows  fall. 
The  youthful  mistress,  at  even-tide, 
Stands  by  the  cedarn  wicket's  side, 
With  both  hands  pushing  from  the  front 
Her  hair,  as  those  who  listen  are  wont ; 
Gazing  toward  the  unknown  South, 
While  silent  whispers  part  her  mouth: 

3 

"  O,  if  a  woman  could  only  find 

Other  work  than  to  wait  behind, 

Through  midnight  dew  and  noonday  drouth,  — 

To  wait  behind,  and  fear,  and  pray  ! 

O,  if  a  soldier's  wife  could  say,  — 
1  Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go ; 

Kiss  thee  ere  thou  meet'st  the  foe ; 

Where  thou  lodgest,  worst  or  best, 

Share  and  soothe  thy  broken  rest ! ' 
—  Alas,  to  stifle  her  pain,  and  wait, 

This  was  ever  a  woman's  fate  ! 

But  the  lonely  hours  at  least  may  be 

Passed  a  little  nearer  thee, 

And  the  city  thou  guardest  with  thy  life 

Thou  'It  guard  more  fondly  for  holding  thy  wife." 
35 


IN  WAR  TIME 

4 

Ah,  tender  heart  of  woman  leal, 
Supple  as  wax  and  strong  as  steel ! 
Thousands  as  faithful  and  as  lone, 
Following  each  some  dearest  one, 
Found  in  those  early  months  a  home 
Under  the  brightness  of  that  dome 
Whose  argent  arches  for  aye  enfold 
The  hopes  of  a  people  in  their  hold, — 
Irradiate,  in  the  sight  of  all 
Who  guard  the  Capital's  outer  wall. 
Lastly  came  one,  amid  the  rest, 
Whose  form  a  sunburnt  soldier  prest, 
As  lovers  embrace  in  respite  lent 
From  unfulfilled  imprisonment. 
And  Alice  found  a  new  content : 
Dearer  for  perils  that  had  been 
Were  short-lived  meetings,  far  between ; 
Better,  for  dangers  yet  to  be, 
The  moments  she  still  his  face  could  see. 
These,  for  the  pure  and  loving  wife, 
Were  the  silver  bars  that  marked  her  life, 
That  numbered  the  days  melodiously; 
While,  through  all  noble  daring,  Hugh 
From  a  Captain  to  a  Colonel  grew, 
And  his  praises  sweetened  every  tongue 
That  reached  her  ear,  —  for  old  and  young 
Gave  him  the  gallant  leader's  due. 


X 


i 

FLIGHT  of  a  meteor  through  the  sky, 
Scattering  firebrands,  arrows,  and  death,— 
A  baleful  year,  that  hurtled  by 
While  ancient  kingdoms  held  their  breath. 

36 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 


The  Capital  grew  aghast  with  sights 
Flashed  from  the  lurid  river-heights, 
Full  of  the  fearful  things  sent  down, 
By  demons  haunting  the  middle  air, 
Into  the  hot,  beleaguered  town, — 
All  woful  sights  and  sounds,  which  seem 
The  fantasy  of  a  sickly  dream  : 
Crowded  wickedness  everywhere ; 
Everywhere  a  stifled  sense 
Of  the  noonday-striding  pestilence ; 
Every  church,  from  wall  to  wall, 
A  closely-mattressed  hospital ; 
And  ah  !  our  bleeding  heroes,  brought 
From  smouldering  fields  so  vainly  fought, 
Filling  each  place  where  a  man  could  lie 
To  gasp  a  dying  wish  —  and  die  ; 
While  the  sombre  sky,  relentlessly, 
Covered  the  town  with  a  funeral-pall, 
A  death-damp,  trickling  funeral-pall. 

3 

Always  the  dust  and  mire ;  the  sound 
Of  the  rumbling  wagon's  ceaseless  round, 
The  cannon  jarring  the  trampled  ground. 
The  sad,  unvarying  picture  wrought 
Upon  the  pitying  woman's  heart 
Of  Alice,  the  Colonel's  wife,  and  taught 

Her  spirit  to  choose  the  better  part, 

The  labor  of  loving  angels,  sent 
To  men  in  their  sore  encompassment. 
Daily  her  gentle  steps  were  bent 
Through  the  thin  pathways  which  divide 
The  patient  sufferers,  side  from  side, 
In  dolorous  wards,  where  Death  and  Life 
Wage  their  silent,  endless  strife ; 
37 


IN  WAR  TIME 

And  she  gave  to  all  her  soothing  words, 

Sweet  as  the  songs  of  homestead  birds. 

Sometimes  that  utterance  musical 

On  the  soldier's  failing  sense  would  fall, 

Seeming,  almost,  a  prelude  given 

Of  whispers  that  calm  the  air  of  Heaven  ; 

While  her  white  hand,  moistening  his  poor  lips 

With  the  draught  which  slakeless  fever  sips, 

Pointed  him  to  that  fount  above, — 

River  of  water  of  life  and  love,  — 

Stream  without  price,  of  whose  purity 

Whoever  thirsteth  may  freely  buy. 

4 

How  many  —  whom  in  their  mortal  pain 
She  tended  —  't  was  given  her  to  gain, 
Through  Him  who  died  upon  the  rood, 
For  that  divine  beatitude, 
Who  of  us  all  can  ever  know 
Till  the  golden  books  their  records  show  ? 
But  she  saw  their  dying  faces  light, 
And  felt  a  rapture  in  the  sight. 
And  many  a  sufferer's  earthly  life 
Thanked  for  new  strength  the  Colonel's  wife; 
Many  a  soldier  turned  his  head, 
Watching  her  pass  his  narrow  bed, 
Or,  haply,  his  feeble  frame  would  raise, 
As  the  dim  lamp  her  form  revealed ; 
And,  like  the  children  in  the  field, 
(For  soldiers  like  little  ones  become,  - 
As  simple  in  heart,  as  frolicsome,) 
One  and  another  breathed  her  name, 
Blessing  her  as  she  went  and  came. 

5 

So,  through  all  actions  pure  and  good, 
Unknowing  evil,  shame,  or  fear, 

38 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

She  grew  to  perfect  ladyhood,  — 

Unwittingly  the  mate  and  peer 

Of  the  proudest  of  her  husband's  blood. 


XI 


LIKE  an  affluent,  royal  town,  the  summer  camps 

Of  a  hundred  thousand  men  are  stretched  away. 

At  night,  like  multitudinous  city  lamps, 

Their  numberless  watch-fires  beacon,  clear  and  still, 

And  a  glory  beams  from  the  zenith  lit 

With  lurid  vapors  that  over  its  star-lights  flit ; 

But  wreaths  of  opaline  cloud  o'erhang,  by  day, 

The  crystal-pointed  tents,  from  hill  to  hill, 

From  vale  to  vale  —  until 

The  heavens  on  endless  peaks  their  curtain  lay. 

A  magical  city  !  spread  to-night 

On  hills  which  slope  within  our  sight : 

To-morrow,  as  at  the  waving  of  a  wand, 

Tents,  guidons,  bannerols  are  moved  afar,  — 

Rising  elsewhere,  as  rises  a  morning-star, 

Or  the  dream  of  Aladdin's  palace  in  fairy-land. 


Camp  after  camp,  like  marble  square  on  square ; 
Street  following  street,  with  many  a  park  between  ; 
Bright  bayonet-sparkles  in  the  tremulous  air ; 
Far-fading,  purple  smoke  above  their  sheen ; 
Green  central  fields  with  flags  like  flowers  abloom ; 
And,  all  about,  close-ordered,  populous  life  : 
But  here  no  festering  trade,  no  civic  strife, 
Only  the  blue-clad  soldiers  everywhere, 
Waiting  to-morrow's  victory  or  doom,  — 
Men  of  the  hour,  to  whom  these  pictures  seem, 
Like  school-boy  thoughts,  half  real,  half  a  dream. 

39 


IN  WAR  TIME 

3 

Camps  of  the  cavalry,  apart, 

Are  pitched  with  nicest  art 

On  hilly  suburbs  where  old  forests  grow. 

Here,  by  itself,  one  glimmers  through  the  pines, — 

One  whose  high-hearted  chief  we  know  : 

A  thousand  men  leap  when  his  bugles  blow ; 

A  thousand  horses  curvet  at  his  lines, 

Pawing  the  turf;  among  them  come  and  go 

The  jacketed  troopers,  changed  by  wind  and  rain, 

Storm,  raid,  and  skirmish,  sunshine,  midnight  dew, 

To  bronzed  men  who  never  ride  in  vain. 


In  the  great  wall-tent  at  the  head  of  the  square, 

The  Colonel  hangs  his  sword,  and  there 

Huge  logs  burn  high  in  front  at  the  close  of  the  day; 

And  the  captains  gather  ere  the  long  tattoo, 

While  the  banded  buglers  play ; 

Then  come  the  tales  of  home  and  the  troopers'  song. 

Clear  over  the  distant  outposts  float  the  notes, 

And  the  lone  vidette  to  catch  them  listens  long ; 

And  the  officer  of  the  guard,  upon  his  round, 

Pauses,  to  hear  the  sound 

Of  the  chiming  chorus  poured  from  a  score  of  throats 


CAVALRY    SONG 

Our  good  steeds  snufF  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

HALT! 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 
40 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome, 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  '   No  thoughts  of  home 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

CHARGE ! 

Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall ! 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack ! 

They  fall,  they  spread  in  broken  surges  ! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 

Home,  and  good  night ! 


XII 


WHEN  April  rains  and  the  great  spring-tide 
Cover  the  lowlands  far  and  wide, 
And  eastern  winds  blow  somewhat  harsh 
Over  the  salt  and  mildewed  marsh, 
Then  the  grasses  take  deeper  root, 
Sucking,  athirst  and  resolute; 
And  when  the  waters  eddy  away, 
Flowing  in  trenches  to  Newark  Bay, 
The  fibrous  blades  grow  rank  and  tall, 
And  from  their  tops  the  reed-birds  call. 
Five  miles  in  width  the  moor  is  spread  ; 
Two  broad  rivers  its  borders  thread  ; 
The  schooners  which  up  their  channels  pass 
Seem  to  be  sailing  in  the  grass, 
41 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Save  as  they  rise  with  the  moon-drawn  sea, 
Twice  in  the  day,  continuously. 


Gray  with  an  inward  struggle  grown, 

The  brooding  lawyer,  Hermann  Van  Ghelt, 

Lived  at  the  mansion-house,  alone ; 

But  a  chilling  cloud  at  his  bosom  felt, 

Like  the  fog  which  crept,  at  morn  and  night, 

Across  the  rivers  in  his  sight, 

And  rising,  left  the  moorland  plain 

Bare  and  spectral  and  cold  again. 

He  saw  the  one  tall  hill,  which  stood 

Huge  with  its  quarry  and  gloaming  wood, 

And  the  creeping  engines,  as  they  hist 

Through  the  dim  reaches  of  the  mist, — 

Serpents,  with  ominous  eyes  aglow, 

Thridding  the  grasses  to  and  fro ; 

And  he  thought  how  each  dark,  receding  train 

Carried  its  freight  of  joy  and  pain, 

On  toil's  adventure  and  fortune's  quest, 

To  the  troubled  city  of  unrest ; 

And  he  knew  that  under  the  desolate  pall 

Of  the  bleak  horizon,  skirting  all, 

The  burdened  ocean  heaved,  and  rolled 

Its  moaning  surges  manifold. 

3 

Often  at  evening,  gazing  through 
The  eastward  windows  on  such  a  view, 
Its  sense  enwrapt  him  as  with  a  shroud ; 
Often  at  noon,  in  the  city's  crowd, 
He  saw,  as  't  were  in  a  mystic  glass, 
Unbidden  faces  before  him  pass  : 
A  soldier,  with  eyes  unawed  and  mild 
As  the  eyes  of  one  who  was  his  child ; 
A  woman's  visage,  like  that  which  blest 
42 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

A  year  of  his  better  years  the  best ; 

And  the  plea  of  a  voice,  remembered  well, 

Deep  in  his  secret  hearing  fell. 

And  as  week  by  week  its  records  brought 

Of  heroes  fallen  as  they  fought, 

There  little  by  little  awakened 

In  the  lawyer's  heart  a  shapeless  dread, 

A  fear  of  the  tidings  which  of  all 

On  ear  and  spirit  heaviest  fall, — 

Changeless  sentence  of  mortal  fate, 

Freezing  the  marrow  with  —  Too  Late  ! 


XIII 


THUS, —  when  ended  the  morning  tramp, 
And  the  regiment  came  back  to  camp, 
And  the  Colonel,  breathing  hard  with  pain, 
Was  carried  within  the  lines  again,  — 
Thus  a  Color-Sergeant  told 
The  story  of  that  skirmish  bold  : 


"  JT  was  an  hour  past  midnight,  twelve  hours  ago,— 
We  were  all  asleep,  you  know, 
Save  the  officer  on  his  rounds, 
And  the  guard-relief,  —  when  sounds 
The  signal-gun  !   once  —  twice  — 
Thrice  !   and  then,  in  a  trice, 
The  long  assembly-call  rang  sharp  and  clear, 
Till  'Boots  and  Saddles'  made  us  scamper  like  mice. 
No  time  to  waste 

In  asking  whether  a  fight  was  near; 
Over  the  horses  went  their  traps  in  haste; 
Not  ten  minutes  had  past 
Ere  we  stood  in  marching  gear, 

43 


IN  WAR  TIME 

And  the  call  of  the  roll  was  followed  by  orders  fast : 

4  Prepare  to  mount !  ' 

4  Mount !  '  —  and  the  company  ranks  were  made ; 
Then  in  each  rank,  by  fours,  we  took  the  count, 
And  the  head  of  the  column  wheeled  for  the  long  parade. 

3 

"  There,  on  the  beaten  ground, 

The  regiment  formed  from  right  to  left ; 

Our  Colonel,  straight  in  his  saddle,  looked  around, 

Reining  the  stallion  in,  that  felt  the  heft 

Of  his    rider,   and    stamped    his    foot,   and   wanted   to 
dance. 

At  last  the  order  came  : 
'  By  twos  :   forward,  march  !  '  —  and  the  same 

From  each  officer  in  advance; 

And,  as  the  rear-guard  left  the  spot, 

We  broke  into  the  even  trot. 

4 

"  '  Trot,  march  ! '  —  two  by  two, 
In  the  dust  and  in  the  dew, 
Roads  and  open  meadows  through. 
Steadily  we  kept  the  tune 
Underneath  the  stars  and  moon. 
None,  except  the  Colonel,  knew 
What  our  orders  were  to  do ; 
Whether  on  a  forage-raid 
We  were  tramping,  boot  and  blade, 
Or  a  close  reconnoissance 
Ere  the  army  should  advance ; 
One  thing  certain,  we  were  bound 
Straight  for  Stuart's  camping-ground. 
Plunging  into  forest-shade, 
Well  we  knew  each  glen  and  glade  ! 
Sweet  they  smelled,  the  pine  and  oak, 
And  of  home  my  comrade  spoke. 
44 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Tramp,  tramp,  out  again, 
Sheer  across  the  ragged  plain, 
Where  the  moonbeams  glaze  our  steel 
And  the  fresher  air  we  feel. 
Thus  a  triple  league,  and  more, 
Till  behind  us  spreads  the  gray, 
Pallid  light  of  breaking  day, 
And  on  cloudy  hills,  before, 
Rebel  camp-fires  smoke  away. 
Hard  by  yonder  clump  of  pines, 
We  should  touch  the  rebel  lines : 
'  Walk,  march  ! '  and,  softly  now, 
Gain  yon  hillock's  westward  brow. 

5 

«  '  Halt !  '  and  *  Right  into  line  !  '  —  There  on  the  ridge 
In  battle-order,  we  let  the  horses  breathe ; 
The  Colonel  raised  his  glass  and  scanned  the  bridge, 
The  tents  on  the  bank  beyond,  the  stream  beneath. 
Just  then  the  sun  first  broke  from  the  redder  east, 
And  their  pickets  saw  five  hundred  of  us,  at  least, 
Stretched  like  a  dark  stockade  against  the  sky ; 
We  heard  their  long-roll  clamor  loud  and  nigh: 
In  half  a  minute  a  rumbling  battery  whirled 
To  a  mound  in  front,  unlimbering  with  a  will, 
And  a  twelve-pound  solid  shot  came  right  along, 
Singing  a  devilish  morning-song, 

And  touched  my  comrade's  leg,  and  the  poor  boy  curled 
And  dropt  to  the  turf,  holding  his  bridle  still. 
Well,  we  moved  out  of  range,  —  were  wheeling  round, 
I  think,  for  the  Colonel  had  taken  his  look  at  their  ground, 
(Thus  he  was  ordered,  it  seems,  and  nothing  more : 
Hardly  worth  coming  at  midnight  for!) 
When,  over  the  bridge,  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  horse 
Dashed  out  upon  our  course, 
Giving  us  hope  of  a  tussle  to  warm  our  blood. 
Then  we  cheered,  to  a  man,  that  our  early  call 

45 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Had  n't  been  sounded  for  nothing,  after  all; 

And  halting,  to  wait  their  movements,  the  column  stood. 

6 

"  Then  into  squadrons  we  saw  their  ranks  enlarge, 
And  slow  and  steady  they  moved  to  the  charge, 
Shaking  the  ground  as  they  came  in  carbine-range. 
4  Front  into  line  !   March  !   Halt !   Front ! ' 
Our  Colonel  cried  ;  and  in  squadrons,  to  meet  the  brunt, 
We  too  from  the  walk  to  the  trot  our  paces  change  : 
4  Gallop,  march  ! '  —  and,  hot  for  the  fray, 
Pistols  and  sabres  drawn,  we  canter  away. 

7 

"  Twenty  rods  over  the  slippery  clover 
We  galloped  as  gayly  as  lady  and  lover ; 
Held  the  reins  lightly,  bur  good  weapons  tightly, 
Five  solid  squadrons  all  shining  and  sightly  ; 
Not  too  fast,  half  the  strength  of  our  brave  steeds  to  wasten^ 
Not  too  slow,  for  the  warmth  of  their  fire  made  us  hasten, 
As  it  came  with  a  rattle  and  opened  the  battle, 
Tumbling  from  saddles  ten  fellows  of  mettle. 
So  the  distance  grew  shorter,  their  sabres  shone  broader; 
Then  the  bugle's  wild  blare  and  the  Colonel's  loud  order,  — 

"  CHARGE  !  "  and  we  sprang,  while  the  far  echo  rang, 
And  their  bullets,  like  bees,  in  our  ears  fiercely  sang. 
Forward  we  strode  to  pay  what  we  owed, 
Right  at  the  head  of  their  column  we  rode ; 
Together  we  dashed,  and  the  air  reeled  and  flashed ; 
Stirrups,  sabres,  and  scabbards  all  shattered  and  crashed 
As  we  cut  in  and  out,  right  and  left,  all  about, 
Hand  to   hand,   blow   for  blow,  shot    for  shot,  shout  for 

shout, 

Till  the  earth  seemed  to  boil  with  the  heat  of  our  toil. 
But  in  less  than  five  minutes  we  felt  them  recoil, 
Heard  their  shrill  rally  sound,  and,  like  hares  from  the  hound, 

46 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Each  ran  for  himself :  one  and  all  fled  the  ground  ! 

Then  we  goaded  them  up  to  their  guns,  where  they  cow 
ered, 

And  the  breeze  cleared  the  field  where  the  battle-cloud 
lowered. 

Threescore  of  them  lay,  to  teach  them  the  way 

Van  Ghelt  and  his  rangers  their  compliments  pay. 

But  a  plenty,  I  swear,  of  our  saddles  were  bare ; 

Friend  and  foe,  horse  and  rider,  lay  sprawled  everywhere : 

'T  was  hard  hitting,  you  see,  Sir,  that  gained  us  the  day  ! 

8 

"  Yes,  they  too  had  their  say  before  they  fled, 
And  the  loss  of  our  Colonel  is  worse  than  all  the  rest. 
One  of  their  captains  aimed  at  him,  as  he  led 
The  foremost  charge  —  I  shot  the  rascal  dead, 
But  the  Colonel  fell,  with  a  bullet  through  his  breast. 
We  lifted  him  from  the  mire,  when  the  field  was  won, 
And  their  captured  colors  shaded  him  from  the  sun 
In  the  farmer's  wagon  we  took  for  his  homeward  ride ; 
But  he  never  said  a  word,  nor  opened  his  eyes, 
Till  we  reached  the  camp.   In  yon  hospital  tent  he  lies, 
And  his  poor  young  wife  will  come  to  watch  by  his  side. 
The  surgeon  has  n't  found  the  bullet,  as  yet, 
But  he  says  it  's  a  mortal  wound.   Where  will  you  get 
Another  such  man  to  lead  us,  if  he  dies  ?" 


XIV 


SPRUNG  was  the  bow  at  last ; 
And  the  barbed  and  pointed  dart, 
Keen  with  stings  of  the  past, 
Barbed  with  a  vain  remorse, 
Clove  for  itself  a  course 

47 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Straight  to  the  father's  heart ; 
And  a  lonely  wanderer  stood, 
Mazed  in  a  mist  of  thought, 
On  the  edge  of  a  field  of  blood. 
—  For  a  battle  had  been  fought, 
And  the  cavalry  skirmish  was  but  a  wild  prelude 
To  the  broader  carnage  that  heaped  a  field  in  vain  : 
A  terrible  battle  had  been  fought, 
Till  its  changeful  current  brought 
Tumultuous,  angry  surges  roaring  back 
To  the  lines  where  our  army  had  lain. 
The  lawyer,  driven  hard  by  an  inward  pain, 
Was  crossing,  in  search  of  a  dying  son,  the  track 
Where  the  deluge  rose  and  fell,  and  its  stranded  wrack 
Had  sown  the  loathing  earth  with  human  slain. 


Friends  and  foes, —  who  could  discover  which, 
As  they  marked  the  zigzag,  outer  ditch, 
Or  lay  so  cold  and  still  in  the  bush, 
Fallen  and  trampled  down  in  the  last  wild  rush  ? 
Then  the  shattered  forest-trees  ;  the  clearing  there 
Where  a  battery  stood  ;   dead  horses,  pawing  the  air 
With  horrible  upright  hoofs ;  a  mangled  mass 
Of  wounded  and  stifled  men  in  the  low  morass  ; 
And  the  long  trench  dug  in  haste  for  a  burial-pit, 
Whose  yawning  length  and  breadth  all  comers  fit. 

3 

And  over  the  dreadful  precinct,  like  the  lights 
That  flit  through  graveyard  walks  in  dismal  nights, 
Men  with  lanterns  were  groping  among  the  dead, 
Holding  the  flame  to  every  hueless  face, 
And  bearing  those  whose  life  had  not  wholly  fled 
On   stretchers,  that  looked    like   biers,   from   the   ghastly 
place. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 


4 

The  air  above  seemed  heavy  with  errant  souls, 
Dense  with  ghosts  from  those  gory  forms  arisen, — 
Each  rudely  driven  from  its  prison, 
'  Mid  the  harsh  jar  of  rattling  musket-rolls, 
And  quivering  throes,  and  unexpected  force; 
In  helpless  waves  adrift  confusedly, 
Freighting  the  sombre  haze  without  resource. 
Through  all  there  trickled,  from  the  pitying  sky, 
An  infinite  mist  of  tears  upon  the  ground, 
Muffling  the  groans  of  anguish  with  its  sound. 

5 

On  the  borders  of  such  a  land,  on  the  bounds  of  Death, 
The  stranger,  shuddering,  moved  as  one  who  saith : 
"  God  !   what  a  doleful  clime,  a  drear  domain !  " 
And  onward,  struggling  with  his  pain, 
Traversed  the  endless  camp-fires,  spark  by  spark, 
Past  sentinels  that  challenged  from  the  dark, 
Guided  through  camp  and  camp  to  one  long  tent 
Whose  ridge  a  flying  bolt  from  the  field  had  rent 
Letting  the  midnight  mist,  the  battle  din, 
Fall  on  the  hundred  forms  that  writhed  within. 


Beyond  the  gaunt  Zouave  at  the  nearest  cot, 

And  the  bugler  shot  in  the  arm,  who  lay  beside 

(Looking  down  at  the  wounded  spot 

Even  then,  for  all  the  pain,  with  boyish  pride), 

And  a  score  of  men,  with  blankets  opened  wide, 

Showing  the  gory  bandages  which  bound 

The  paths  of  many  a  deadly  wound, 

—  Over  all  these  the  stranger's  glances  sped 

To  one  low  stretcher,  at  whose  head 

A  woman,  bowed  and  brooding,  sate, 

As  sit  the  angels  of  our  fate, 

49 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Who,  motionless,  our  births  and  deaths  await. 

He  whom  she  tended  moaned  and  tost, 

Restless,  as  some  laborious  vessel,  lost 

Close  to  the  port  for  which  we  saw  it  sail, 

Groans  in  the  long  perpetual  gale; 

But  she,  that  watched  the  storm,  forbore  to  weep. 

Sometimes  the  stranger  saw  her  move 

To  others,  who  also  with  their  anguish  strove ; 

But  ever  again  her  constant  footsteps  turned 

To  one  who  made  sad  mutterings  in  his  sleep; 

Ever  she  listened  to  his  breathings  deep, 

Or  trimmed  the  midnight  lamp  that  feebly  burned. 

XV 

LEANING  her  face  on  her  hand, 
She  sat  by  the  side  of  Hugh, 
Silently  watching  him  breathe, 
As  a  lily  curves  its  grace 
Over  the  broken  form 
Of  the  twin  which  stood  by  its  side. 
A  glory  upon  her  head 
Trailed  from  the  light  above, 
Gilding  her  tranquil  hair. 
There,  as  she  sat  in  a  trance, 
Her  soul  flowed  through  the  past, 
As  a  river,  day  and  night, 
Passes  through  changeful  shores, — 
Sees  on  the  twofold  bank, 
Meadow  and  mossy  grange, 
Castles  on  hoary  crags, 
Forests,  and  fortressed  towns, 
And  shrinks  from  the  widening  bay, 
And  the  darkness  which  overhangs 
The  unknown,  limitless  sea. 
Was  it  a  troubled  dream, 
All  that  the  stream  of  her  life 
5° 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Had  mirrored  along  its  course? 
All  —  from  that  summer  morn 
When  she  seemed  to  meet  in  the  field 
One  whom  she  vowed  to  love, 
And  with  whom  she  wandered  thence, 
Leaving  the  home  of  her  youth  ? 
Were  they  visions  indeed,  — 
The  pillars  of  smoke  and  flame, 
The  sound  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  grandeur,  and  ah!  the  gloom, 
The  shadows  which  circled  her  now, 
And  the  wraith  of  the  one  she  loved 
Gliding  away  from  her  grasp, 
Vanishing  swiftly  and  sure  ? 
Yes,  it  was  all  a  dream; 
And  the  strange,  sad  man,  who  moved 
To  the  other  side  of  the  couch, 
Bending  over  it  long, 
Pressing  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
And  gazing,  anon,  in  her  eyes,  — 
He,  with  his  scanty  hair, 
And  pallid,  repentant  face, 
He,  too,  was  a  voiceless  dream, 
A  vision  like  all  the  rest  ; 
He  with  the  rest  would  fade 
When  the  day  should  dawn  again, 
When  the  spectral  mist  of  night, 
Fused  with  the  golden  morn, 
Should  melt  in  the  eastern  sky. 

XVI 


u  STEADY  !   forward  the  squadron  !  "  cries 
The  dying  soldier,  and  strives  amain 

'  To  rise  from  the  pillow  and  his  pain. 
Wild  and  wandering  are  his  eyes, 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Painting  once  more,  on  the  empty  air, 
The  wrathful  battle's  wavering  glare. 
"  Hugh  !  "  said  Alice,  and  checked  her  fear, 
"  Speak  to  me,  Hugh ;  your  father  is  here." 
"  Father  !   what  of  my  father  ?  he 
Is  anything  but  a  father  to  me ; 
What  need  I  of  a  father,  when 
I  have  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  men  ?  " 
"  —  Alas,  Sir,  he  knows  not  me  nor  you  ! " 
And  with  caressing  words,  the  twain  — 
The  man  with  all  remorsefulness, 
The  woman  with  loving  tenderness  — 
Soothed  the  soldier  to  rest  anew, 
And,  as  the  madness  left  his  brain, 
Silently  watched  his  sleep  again. 


And  again  the  father  and  the  wife, 
Counting  the  precious  sands  of  life, 
Looked  each  askance,  with  those  subtle  eyes, 
That  probe  through  human  mysteries 
And  hidden  motives  fathom  well ; 
But  the  mild  regard  of  Alice  fell, 
Meeting  the  other's  contrite  glance, 
On  his  meek  and  furrowed  countenance, 
Scathed,  as  it  seemed,  with  troubled  thought : 
Surely,  good  angels  have  with  him  wrought," 
She  murmured,  and  halted,  even  across 
The  sorrowful  threshold  of  her  loss, 
To  pity  his  thin  and  changing  hair, 
And  her  heart  forgave  him,  unaware. 

3 

And  he,  —  who  saw  how  she  still  represt 
A  drear  foreboding  within  her  breast, 
And,  by  her  wifehood's  nearest  right, 
Ever  more  closely  through  the  night 
52 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 

Clave  unto  him  whose  quickened  breath 
Came  like  a  waft  from  the  realm  of  Death,  — 
He  felt  what  a  secret,  powerful  tie 
Bound  them  in  one,  mysteriously. 
He  studied  her  features,  as  she  stood 
Lighting  the  shades  of  that  woful  place 
With  the  presence  of  her  womanhood, 
And  thought  —  as  the  dying  son  had  thought 
When  her  beauty  first  his  vision  caught  — 

"  I  never  saw  a  fairer  face ; 
I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice !  " 
And  a  sad  remembrance  travelled  fast 
Through  all  the  labyrinth  of  the  past, 
Till  he  said,  as  the  scales  fell  off  at  last, 

"  How  could  I  blame  him  for  his  choice  ? " 
Then  he  looked  upon  the  sword,  which  lay 
At  the  headboard,  under  the  night-lamp's  ray ; 
He  saw  the  coat,  the  stains,  the  dust, 
The  gilded  eagles  worn  with  rust, 
The  swarthy  forehead  and  matted  hair 
Of  the  strong,  brave  hero  lying  there ; 
And  he  felt  how  gently  Hugh  held  command, — 
The  life  how  gallant,  the  death  how  grand ; 
And  with  trembling  lips,  and  the  words  that  choke, 
And  the  tears  which  burn  the  cheek,  he  spoke : 

"  Where  is  the  father  who  would  not  joy 
In  the  manhood  of  such  a  noble  boy  ? 
This  life,  which  had  being  through  my  own, 
Was  a  better  life  than  I  have  known ; 
O  that  its  fairness  should  be  earth, 
Ere  I  could  prize  it  at  its  worth  !  " 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !  " —  he  made  his  moan  — 

u  I  find  a  daughter,  and  her  alone. 
He  deemed  you  worthy  to  bear  his  name, 
His  spotless  honor,  his  lasting  fame  : 
I,  who  have  wronged  you,  bid  you  live 
To  comfort  the  lonely  —  and  forgive." 
53 


IN  WAR  TIME 


Dim  and  silvery  from  the  east 

The  infant  light  of  another  morn 

Over  the  stirring  camps  was  borne ; 

But  the  soldier's  pulse  had  almost  ceased, 

And  there  crept  upon  his  brow  the  change  — 

Ah,  how  sudden  !   alas,  how  strange  ! 

Yet  again  his  eyelids  opened  wide, 

And  his  glances  moved  to  either  side, 

This  time  with  a  clear  intelligence 

Which  took  all  objects  in  its  sense, 

A  power  to  comprehend  the  whole 

Of  the  scene  that  girded  his  passing  soul. 

The  father,  who  saw  it,  slowly  drew 

Nearer  to  her  that  wept  anew, 

And  gathered  her  tenderly  in  his  hold,  — 

As  mortals  their  precious  things  enfold, 

Grasping  them  late  and  sure ;  and  Hugh 

Gazed  on  the  two  a  space,  and  smiled 

With  the  look  he  wore  when  a  little  child,— 

A  smile  of  pride  and  peace,  that  meant 

A  free  forgiveness,  a  full  content ; 

Then  his  clouding  sight  an  instant  clung 

To  the  flag  whose  stars  above  him  hung, 

And  his  blunted  senses  seemed  to  hear 

The  long  reveillee  sounding  near; 

But  the  ringing  clarion  could  not  vie 

With  the  richer  notes  which  filled  his  ear, 

Nor  the  breaking  morn  with  that  brighter  sky. 


54 


ALICE   OF   MONMOUTH 
XVII 


WEAR  no  armor,  timid  heart ; 
Fear  no  keen  misfortune's  dart, 
Want,  nor  scorn,  nor  secret  blow 
Dealt  thee  by  thy  mortal  foe. 


Let  the  Fates  their  weapons  wield, 
For  a  wondrous  woven  shield 
Shall  be  given  thee,  erelong. 
Mesh  of  gold  were  not  so  strong ; 
Not  so  soft  were  silken  shred ; 
Not  so  fine  the  spider's  thread 
Barring  the  enchanted  door 
In  that  tale  of  ancient  lore,     • 
Guarding,  silently  and  well, 
All  within  the  mystic  cell. 
Such  a  shield,  where'er  thou  art, 
Shall  be  thine,  O  wounded  heart ! 
From  the  ills  that  compass  thee 
Thou  behind  it  shalt  be  free ; 
Envy,  slander,  malice,  all 
Shall  withdraw  them  from  thy  —  Pall, 


Build  no  house  with  patient  care, 
Fair  to  view,  and  strong  as  fair; 
Walled  with  noble  deeds'  renown  ; 
Shining  over  field  and  town, 
Seen  from  land  and  sea  afar, 
Proud  in  peace,  secure  in  war. 
For  the  moments  never  sleep, 
Building  thee  a  castle-keep,— 
Proof  alike  'gainst  heat  and  cold, 
55 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Earthly  sorrows  manifold, 
Sickness,  failure  of  thine  ends, 
And  the  falling  off  of  friends. 
Treason,  want,  dishonor,  wrong, 
None  of  these  shall  harm  thee  long. 
Every  day  a  beam  is  made ; 
Hour  by  hour  a  stone  is  laid. 
Back  the  cruellest  shall  fall 
From  the  warder  at  the  wall ; 
Foemen  shall  not  dare  to  tread 
On  the  ramparts  o'er  thy  head  ; 
Dark,  triumphant  flags  shall  wave 
From  the  fastness  of  thy  —  Grave. 


XVIII 


THERE  Js  an  hour,  at  the  fall  of  night,  when  the  blissful 

souls 

Of  those  who  were  dear  in  life  seem  close  at  hand ; 
There  Js  a  holy  midnight  hour,  when  we  speak  their  names 
In  pauses  between  our  songs  on  the  trellised  porch ; 
And  we  sing  the  hymns  which  they  loved,  and  almost  know 
Their  phantoms  are  somewhere  with  us,  filling  the  gaps, 
The  sorrowful  chasms  left  when  they  passed  away ; 
And  we  seem,  in  the  hush  of  our  yearning  voices,  to  hear 
Their  warm,  familiar  breathing  somewhere  near. 


At  such  an  hour,  —  when  again  the  autumn  haze 
Silvered  the  moors,  and  the  new  moon    peered  from   the 

west 

Over  the  blue  Passaic,  and  the  mansion  shone 
Clear  and  white  on  the  ridge  which  skirts  the  stream,  — 
At  the  twilight  hour  a  man  and  a  woman  sat 
On  the  open  porch,  in  the  garb  of  those  who  mourn. 

5° 


ALICE    OF    MONMOUTH 

Father  and    daughter   they   seemed ;    and  with  thoughtful 

eyes, 
Silent,  and  full  of  the  past,  they  watched  the  skies. 


XIX 

SILENT  they  were,  not  sad ;  for  the  sod  that  covers  the 
grave 

Of  those  we  have  given  to  fame  smells  not  of  the  hateful 
mould, 

But  of  roses  and  fragrant  ferns,  while  marvellous  immor 
telles 

Twine  in  glory  above,  and  their  graces  give  us  joy. 

Silent,  but  oh  !  not  sad  :  for  the  babe  on  the  couch  within 

Drank  at  the  mother's  breast,  till  the  current  of  life,  out- 
drawn, 

Opened  inflowing  currents  of  faith  and  sweet  content ; 

And  the  gray-haired  man,  repenting  in  tears  the  foolish  past, 

Had  seen  in  the  light  from  those  inscrutable  infant  eyes, 

Fresh  from  the  unknown  world,  the  glimpses  which,  long 


Gladdened  his  golden  youth,  and  had  found  his  soul  at  peace. 

XX 


LASTLY  the  moon  went  down;  like  burnished  steel 
The  infinite  ether  wrapt  the  crispy  air. 
Then,  arm  in  arm  on  the  terrace-walk,  the  pair 
Moved  in  that  still  communion  where  we  feel 
No  need  of  audible  questions  and  replies, 
But  mutual  pulses  all  our  thoughts  reveal ; 
And,  as  they  turned  to  leave  the  outer  night, 
Far  in  the  cloudless  North  a  radiant  sight 
Stayed  their  steps  for  a  while  and  held  their  eyes. 

57 


IN  WAR  TIME 


There,  through  the  icy  mail  of  the  boreal  heaven, 
Two-edged  and  burning  swords  by  unseen  hands 
Were  thrust,  till  a  climbing  throng  its  path  had  riven 
Straight  from  the  Pole,  and,  over  seas  and  lands, 
Pushed  for  the  zenith,  while  from  East  to  West 
Flamed  many  a  towering  helm  and  gorgeous  crest  j 
And  then,  a  rarer  pageant  than  the  rest, 
An  angrier  light  glared  from  the  southern  sky, 
As  if  the  austral  trumpets  made  reply, 
And  the  wrath  of  a  challenged  realm  had  swiftly  tost 
On  the  empyrean  the  flags  of  another  host, — 
Pennons  with  or  and  scarlet  blazing  high, 
Crimson  and  orange  banners  proudly  crost ; 
While  through  the  environed  space,  that  lay  between 
Their  adverse  fronts,  the  ether  seemed  to  tremble, 
Shuddering  to  view  such  ruthless  foes  assemble, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  withdrew  their  sheen. 

3 

The  two,  enrapt  with  such  a  vision,  saw 
Its  ominous  surges,  dense,  prismatic,  vast, 
Heaved  from  the  round  horizon ;  and  in  awe, 
Musing  awhile,  were  silent.   Till  at  last 
The  younger,  fair  in  widow's  garments,  spoke : 
14  See,  father,  how,  from  either  pole, 
The  deep,  innumerous  columns  roll ; 
As  if  the  angelic  tribes  their  concord  broke, 
And  the  fierce  war  that  scathes  our  land  had  spread 
Above,  and  the  very  skies  with  ire  were  red  !  " 

4 

Even  as  she  spoke,  there  shone 
High  in  the  topmost  zenith  a  central  spark, 
A  luminous  cloud  that  glowed  against  the  dark ; 
Its  halo,  widening  toward  either  zone, 
Took  on  the  semblance  of  a  mystic  hand 

58 


ALICE    OF    MONMOUTH 

Stretched  from  an  unknown  height ;  and  lo  !  a  band 

Of  scintillant  jewels  twined  around  the  wrist, 

Sapphire  and  ruby,  opal,  amethyst, 

Turquoise,  and  diamond,  linked  with  flashing  joints. 

Its  wide  and  puissant  reach  began  to  clasp, 

In  countless  folds,  the  interclashing  points 

Of  outshot  light,  gathering  their  angry  hues  — 

North,  south,  east,  west  —  with  noiseless  grasp, 

By  some  divine,  resistless  law, 

Till  everywhere  the  wondering  watchers  saw 

A  thousand  colors  blend  and  interfuse, 

In  aureate  wave  on  wave  ascending  higher, — 

Immeasurable,  white,  a  spotless  fire ; 

And,  glory  circling  glory  there,  behold 

Gleams  of  the  heavenly  city  walled  with  gold ! 

5 

"  Daughter,"  the  man  replied,  (his  face  was  bright 
With  the  effulgent  reflex  of  that  light,) 

"  The  time  shall  come,  by  merciful  Heaven  willed, 
When  these  celestial  omens  shall  be  fulfilled, 
Our  strife  be  closed  and  the  nation  purged  of  sin, 
And  a  pure  and  holier  union  shall  begin ; 
And  a  jarring  race  be  drawn,  throughout  the  land, 
Into  new  brotherhood  by  some  strong  hand; 
And  the  baneful  glow  and  splendor  of  war  shall  fade 
In  the  whiter  light  of  love,  that,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Shall  soften  the  rage  of  hosts  in  arms  arrayed, 
And  melt  into  share  and  shaft  each  battle-blade, 
And  brighten  the  hopes  of  a  people  great  and  free. 
But,  in  the  story  told  of  a  nation's  woes, 
Of  the  sacrifices  made  for  a  century's  fault, 
The  fames  of  fallen  heroes  shall  ever  shine, 
Serene,  and  high,  and  crystalline  as  those 
Fair  stars,  which  reappear  in  yonder  vault ; 
In  the  country's  heart  their  written  names  shall  be, 
Like  that  of  a  single  one  in  mine  and  thine. 

59 


IN  WAR  TIME 
ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

ASSASSINATED  GOOD  FRIDAY,  1865 

u  FORGIVE  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do ! " 

He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate, — 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and  true. 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  slayer  lay  in  wait, 

And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's  gate 
There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 

Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too  late ; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon  drew, 

Have  murdered  Mercy.  Now  alone  shall  stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she  wore. 

Hark,  from  the  eastern  to  the  western  strand, 
The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar : 

What  words  they  murmur, —  Fetter  not  her  hand  ! 
So  let  it  smite,  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more ! 

GETTYSBURG 

WAVE,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  soldiers  of  the 

North, 
And  from  the  field  your  arms  have  won  to-day  go  proudly 

forth  ! 
For  now,  O  comrades  dear  and  leal,  —  from  whom  no  ills 

could  part, 
Through  the   long   years  of  hopes  and   fears,  the  nation's 

constant  heart, — 
Men  who  have  driven  so  oft  the  foe,  so  oft  have  striven  in 

vain, 
Yet    ever    in    the    perilous    hour    have    crossed    his    path 

again, — 
At  last  we  have  our  hearts'  desire,  from  them  we  met  have 

wrung 

60 


GETTYSBURG 

A  victory  that    round  the  world   shall    long   be   told   and 

sung ! 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  past  that  bore  us  through  the 

fray, 
That  gave  the  grand  old  Army  strength  to  conquer  on  this 

day  ! 

O  now  forget  how  dark  and  red  Virginia's  rivers  flow, 
The    Rappahannock's    tangled   wilds,    the  glory    and    the 

woe; 
The  fever-hung  encampments,  where  our  dying  knew  full 

sore 
How  sweet  the  north-wind  to  the  cheek  it  soon  shall  cool 

no  more ; 
The  fields  we  fought,  and  gained,  and  lost ;  the  lowland 

sun  and  rain 
That  wasted  us,   that   bleached  the  bones  of  our  unburied 

slain  ! 
There  was  no  lack  of  foes  to  meet,   of  deaths  to  die  no 

lack, 
And   all   the   hawks   of  heaven   learned  to  follow  on  our 

track ; 
But  henceforth,  hovering  southward,  their  flight  shall  mark 

afar 
The  paths  of  yon  retreating  hosts  that  shun  the  northern 

star. 

At  night,  before  the  closing  fray,  when  all  the  front  was  still, 

We  lay  in  bivouac  along  the  cannon-crested  hill. 

Ours  was  the  dauntless  Second  Corps;  and  many  a  soldier 

knew 
How  sped  the  fight,  and  sternly  thought  of  what  was  yet 

to  do. 
Guarding  the  centre  there,  we  lay,  and  talked  with  bated 

breath 
Of  Buford's  stand  beyond  the  town,  of  gallant  Reynolds' 

death, 

61 


IN    WAR   TIME 

Of  cruel  retreats  through  pent-up  streets  by  murderous  vol 
leys  swept, — 

How  well  the  Stone,  the  Iron,  Brigades  their  bloody  out 
posts  kept : 

'T  was  for  the  Union,  for  the  Flag,  they  perished,  heroes 
all, 

And  we  swore  to  conquer  in  the  end,  or  even  like  them  to 
fall. 

And  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of  that  grim  day 

just  done, 

The  fight  by  Round  Top's  craggy  spur,  —  of  all  the  dead 
liest  one ; 
It  saved  the  left :   but  on  the  right  they  pressed  us  back  too 

well, 
And  like  a  field  in  Spring  the  ground  was  ploughed  with 

shot  and  shell. 
There  was  the  ancient  graveyard,  its  hummocks  crushed 

and  red, 
And  there,  between  them,  side  by  side,  the  wounded  and 

the  dead : 
The    mangled   corpses   fallen  above,  —  the  peaceful    dead 

below, 
Laid  in   their  graves,  to    slumber  here,  a  score   of  years 

ago; 
It  seemed  their  waking,  wandering  shades  were  asking  of 

our  slain, 
What  brought  such  hideous  tumult  now  where  they  so  still 

had  lain  ! 

Bright  rose  the  sun  of  Gettysburg  that  morrow  morning- 
tide, 

And  call  of  trump  and  roll  of  drum  from  height  to  height 
replied. 

Hark  !  from  the  east  already  goes  up  the  rattling  din  ; 

The  Twelfth  Corps,  winning  back  their  ground,  right  well 
the  day  begin  ! 

62 


GETTYSBURG 

They  whirl  fierce  Ewell  from  their  front  !  Now  we  of  the 
Second  pray, 

As  right  and  left  the  brunt  have  borne,  the  centre  might 
to-day. 

But  all  was  still  from  hill  to  hill  for  many  a  breathless 
hour, 

While  for  the  coming  battle-shock  Lee  gathered  in  his 
power ; 

And  back  and  forth  our  leaders  rode,  who  knew  not  rest  or 
fear, 

And  along  the  lines,  where'er  they  came,  went  up  the  ring 
ing  cheer. 

'Twas  past  the  hour  of  nooning;  the  Summer  skies  were 

blue  ; 

Behind  the  covering  timber  the  foe  was  hid  from  view ; 
So  fair  and  sweet  with  waving  wheat  the  pleasant  valley 

lay, 
It  brought  to  mind  our  Northern  homes  and  meadows  far 

away ; 
When  the  whole  western  ridge  at  once  was   fringed  with 

fire  and  smoke  ; 
Against  our  lines  from  sevenscore  guns  the  dreadful  tempest 

broke ! 

Then  loud  our  batteries  answer,  and  far  along  the  crest, 
And  to  and  fro  the  roaring  bolts  are  driven  east  and  west ; 
Heavy  and  dark  around   us   glooms   the   stifling   sulphur- 
cloud, 
And  the  cries  of  mangled  men  and  horse  go  up  beneath  its 

shroud. 

The  guns  are  still :  the  end   is  nigh  :   we  grasp  our  arms 

anew; 

O  now  let  every  heart  be  stanch  and  every  aim  be  true  ! 
For  look  !  from  yonder  wood  that  skirts  the  valley's  further 

marge, 

The  flower  of  all  the  Southern  host  move  to  the  final  charge. 

63 


IN    WAR   TIME 

By  Heaven !  it  is  a  fearful  sight  to  see  their  double  rank 
Come  with  a  hundred  battle-flags,  —  a   mile  from  flank  to 

flank! 
Tramping  the  grain  to  earth,  they  come,  ten  thousand  men 

abreast ; 
Their  standards  wave,  —  their   hearts    are    brave,  —  they 

hasten  not,  nor  rest, 
But  close  the  gaps  our  cannon  make,  and  onward  press,  and 

nigher, 
And,  yelling  at  our  very  front,  again  pour  in  their  fire  ! 

Now  burst  our  sheeted  lightnings  forth,  now  all  our  wrath 

has  vent ! 
They  die,  they  wither ;  through  and  through  their  wavering 

lines  are  rent. 
But  these  are  gallant,  desperate  men,  of  our  own  race  and 

land, 
Who  charge  anew,  and  welcome  death,  and  fight  us  hand 

to  hand  : 
Vain,  vain  !   give  way,  as  well  ye  may  —  the  crimson  die 

is  cast ! 

Theirbravest  leaders  bite  the  dust, their  strength  is  failing  fast; 
They  yield,  they  turn,  they  fly  the  field  :  we  smite  them  as 

they  run; 
Their  arms,  their  colors  are  our  spoil ;  the  furious  fight  is 

done ! 

Across  the  plain  we  follow  far  and  backward  push  the  fray  : 
Cheer  !  cheer  !  the  grand  old  Army  at  last  has  won  the  day1 

Hurrah !  the  day  has  won  the  cause  !  No  gray-clad  host 

henceforth 
Shall  come  with  fire  and  sword  to  tread  the  highways  of  the 

North  ! 
'  T  was  such  a  flood  as  when  ye  see,  along  the  Atlantic 

shore, 
The  great  Spring-tide  roll  grandly  in  with  swelling  surge 

and  roar : 


GETTYSBURG 

It  seems  no  wall  can  stay  its  leap  or  balk  its  wild  desire 
Beyond  the  bound  that  Heaven  hath  fixed  to  higher  mount, 

and  higher ; 
But  now,  when  whitest  lifts  its  crest,  most  loud  its  billows 

call, 
Touched  by  the  Power  that  led  them  on,  they  fall,  and  fall, 

and  fall. 

Even  thus,  unstayed  upon  his  course,  to  Gettysburg  the  foe 
His  legions  led,  and  fought,  and  fled,  and  might  no  further  go. 

Full  many  a  dark-eyed  Southern  girl  shall  weep  her  lover 

dead; 
But  with  a  price  the  fight  was  ours,  —  we  too  have  tears  to 

shed! 
The  bells  that  peal  our  triumph  forth  anon  shall  toll  the 

brave, 
Above    whose    heads    the    cross    must   stand,  the  hillside 

grasses  wave  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  the  trampled  grass  shall  thrive  another  year, 
The  blossoms  on  the  apple-boughs  with  each  new  Spring 

appear, 
But  when  our  patriot-soldiers  fall,  Earth  gives  them  up  to 

God; 
Though  their  souls  rise  in  clearer  skies,  their  forms  are  as 

the  sod; 
Only  their  names  and  deeds  are  ours,  —  but,  for  a  century 

yet, 
The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land  shall  not  forget. 

God  send  us  peace  !  and  where  for  aye  the  loved  and  lost 
recline 

Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm,  —  O  North,  your 
sprigs  of  pine ! 

But  when,  with  every  ripened  year,  we  keep  the  harvest- 
home, 

And  to  the  dear  Thanksgiving-feast  our  sons  and  daughters 
come, 

65 


IN   WAR   TIME 

When    children's    children   throng    the   board  in   the  old 

homestead  spread, 

And  the  bent  soldier  of  these  wars  is  seated  at  the  head, 
Long,  long  the  lads  shall  listen  to  hear  the  gray-beard  tell 
Of  those  who  fought  at  Gettysburg  and  stood  their  ground 

so  well : 

"  'Twas  for  the  Union  and  the  Flag,"  the  veteran  shall  say, 
"  Our  grand  old  Army  held  the  ridge,  and  won  that  glorious 

day! " 


POEMS   OF    MANHATTAN 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S 
CALL 

I  JAN.  A.  D.  1 66 1 

WHERE  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 

New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christened  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and  psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topped  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly  gabled  town  ; 
These  flapped  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 
To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 

Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 

Betwixt  their  feather-beds ; 
In  hose  and  breeches  walked  by  day, 

And  smoked,  and  wagged  their  heads. 
No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 

The  freulen  to  bewilder, 
And  cost  the  burgher's  purse,  perchance, 

Its  every  other  guilder. 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept. 
Few  modern-school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashioned  bundling. 

—  The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold ; 

The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 
In  depth,  lay  over  Beeckman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well. 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen-doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then  stamped  through  drifts  to  do  the  chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But  —  after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut  — 

To  all  the  gathered  town 
The  Dominie  preached  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown  ; 
While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyvesant 

Sat  pewed  in  foremost  station, — 
The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 

Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 

Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 

In  gubernatorial  style ; 
Yet  missed,  though  now  the  day  was  old, 

An  ancient  fellow-feaster, — 
Heer  Govert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester ; 

Who,  in  his  farm-house,  close  without 
The  picket's  eastern  end, 

70 


PETER   STUYVESANT'S   NEW  YEAR'S   CALL 

Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 
But  Peter  strapped  his  wooden  peg, 

When  tea  and  cake  were  ended 
(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 

Its  high  jack-boot  defended), 

A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 

And  swore,  by  wind  and  limb, 
Since  Govert  kept  from  Peter's  view, 

Peter  would  visit  him ; 
Then  sallied  forth,  through  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humble  greeter 
Stood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 

Past  quay  and  cowpath,  through  a  lane 

Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 
He  puffed  along,  with  might  and  main, 

To  Govert  Loockermans ; 
Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 

And  hailed  his  ancient  crony : 
ct  Myn  God  !  in  dese  Manhattoes,  Loock, 

Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money  !  " 

To  which,  and  after  whiffs  profound, 

With  doubtful  wink  and  nod, 
There  came  at  last  responsive  sound : 

"Yah,  Peter;  yah,  Myn  God!" 
Then  goedevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 

Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 
And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 

To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 

She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 

That  years  before  had  come  — 
In  the  "  Nieuw  Nederlandts,"  perhaps  — 

To  cheer  the  settlers'  home ; 


POEMS    OF   MANHATTAN 

The  long-stemmed  pipes ;  the  fragrant  roll 
Of  pressed  and  crispy  Spanish  ; 

Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 
Nor  long  delayed  to  vanish. 

Thereat,  wjth  cheery  nod  and  wink, 

And  honors  of  the  day, 
The  trader  mixed  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room  !  I  see  it  now  : 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor ; 

The  brace  of  high-backed  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nailed  at  every  seam ; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs ; 

The  bacon  hung  abeam  : 
The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelft; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire ; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 

I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state  : 
The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean ; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 

But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were,  — 

They  drank  the  Motherland  ; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
72 


PETER   STUYVESANT'S   NEW  YEAR'S    CALL 

While  Govert  proudly  showed  the  scars 
Of  Indian  contests  gory. 

Erelong,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains, — 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  phantom  ships  and  battle  ; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 

Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  Netherlandish  reel ; 
Till  midnight  o'er  the  farm-house  spread 

Her  New-Year's  skirts  of  sable, 
And,  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 

Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 

But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dreamed, 

That  table  spread  and  turned  ; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seemed 

To  circle  as  it  burned ; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning ; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 

The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past, 
And  checkered  into  shining  blocks,  — 

A  city  fair  and  vast ; 
Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 

The  metamorphosed  island, 
While  not  a  beaver  showed  his  head 

From  Swamp  to  Kalchook  highland. 
73 


POEMS   OF   MANHATTAN 

Eftsoons  the  picture  passed  away ; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 

Gleam  in  through  fading  smoke; 
Still  slept  old  Govert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers ; 
No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 

Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 

But  Peter,  from  the  farm-house  door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 
The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead, 

Wind  east,  and  morning  lowery ; 
And  on  he  pushed,  a  two-miles'  tread, 

To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 
1861. 

FUIT   ILIUM 

ONE  by  one  they  died, — 

Last  of  all  their  race; 
Nothing  left  but  pride, 

Lace,  and  buckled  hose. 
Their  quietus  made, 

On  their  dwelling-place 
Ruthless  hands  are  laid: 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

See  the  ancient  manse 

Meet  its  fate  at  last ! 
Time,  in  his  advance, 

Age  nor  honor  knows; 
Axe  and  broadaxe  fall, 

Lopping  off  the  Past: 
Hit  with  bar  and  maul, 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 
74 


FUIT    ILIUM 

Sevenscore  years  it  stood: 
Yes,  they  built  it  well, 
Though  they  built  of  wood, 

When  that  house  arose. 
For  its  cross-beams  square 

Oak  and  walnut  fell; 
Little  worse  for  wear, 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Rending  board  and  plank, 
Men  with  crowbars  ply, 
Opening  fissures  dank, 

Striking  deadly  blows. 
From  the  gabled  roof 

How  the  shingles  fly! 
Keep  you  here  aloof,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Holding  still  its  place, 

There  the  chimney  stands, 
Stanch  from  top  to  base, 

Frowning  on  its  foes. 
Heave  apart  the  stones, 
Burst  its  iron  bands! 
How  it  shakes  and  groans! 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Round  the  mantel-piece 

Glisten  Scripture  tiles; 
Henceforth  they  shall  cease 
Painting  Egypt's  woes, 
Painting  David's  fight, 

Fair  Bathsheba's  smiles, 
Blinded  Samson's  might,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

On  these  oaken  floors 
High-shoed  ladies  trod; 
75 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Through  those  panelled  doors 
Trailed  their  furbelows: 

Long  their  day  has  ceased; 
Now,  beneath  the  sod, 

With  the  worms  they  feast,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Many  a  bride  has  stood 

In  yon  spacious  room; 
Here  her  hand  was  wooed 
Underneath  the  rose; 
O'er  that  sill  the  dead 

Reached  the  family  tomb: 
All,  that  were,  have  fled,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Once,  in  yonder  hall, 

Washington,  they  say, 
Led  the  New- Year's  ball, 

Stateliest  of  beaux. 
O  that  minuet, 

Maids  and  matrons  gay! 
Are  there  such  sights  yet? 

Down  the  old  house  goes. 

British  troopers  came 

Ere  another  year, 
With  their  coats  aflame, 

Mincing  on  their  toes; 
Daughters  of  the  house 

Gave  them  haughty  cheer, 
Laughed  to  scorn  their  vows,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

Doorway  high  the  box 

In  the  grass-plot  spreads ; 
It  has  borne  its  locks 

Through  a  thousand  snows; 
76 


BOHEMIA 

In  an  evil  day, 

From  those  garden-beds 
Now  't  is  hacked  away,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 

Lo!  the  sycamores, 

Scathed  and  scrawny  mates, 
At  the  mansion  doors 

Shiver,  full  of  woes; 
With  its  life  they  grew, 

Guarded  well  its  gates; 
Now  their  task  is  through, — 

D      ' 

Down  the  old  house  goes ! 

On  this  honored  site 

Modern  trade  will  build,  — 
What  unseemly  fright 

Heaven  only  knows ! 
Something  peaked  and  high, 

Smacking  of  the  guild: 
Let  us  heave  a  sigh,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes! 


BOHEMIA 

A    PILGRIMAGE 


buttercups  are  blossoming, 
The  poets  sang,  'tis  best  to  wed: 
So  all  for  love  we  paired  in  Spring  — 
Blanche  and  I  —  ere  youth  had  sped, 
For  Autumn's  wealth  brings  Autumn's  wane. 
Sworn  fealty  to  royal  Art 
Was  ours,  and  doubly  linked  the  chain, 
With  symbols  of  her  high  domain, 
That  twined  us  ever  heart  to  heart ; 
77 


POEMS   OF   MANHATTAN 

And  onward,  like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood, 
We  rambled,  till  before  us  stood 
The  outposts  of  Bohemia. 

ii 

For,  roaming  blithely  many  a  day, 
Eftsoons  our  little  hoard  of  gold, 
Like  Christian's  follies,  slipt  away, 
Unloosened  from  the  pilgrim's  hold, 
But  left  us  just  as  blithe  and  free ; 
Whereat  our  footsteps  turned  aside 
From  lord  and  lady  of  degree, 
And  bore  us  to  that  brave  countree 
Where  merrily  we  now  abide,— 

That  proud  and  humble,  poor  and  grandj 
Enchanted,  golden  Gypsy-Land, 
The  Valley  of  Bohemia. 


in 


Together  from  the  higher  clime, 
By  terraced  cliff  and  copse  along, 
Adown  the  slant  we  stept,  in  time 
To  many  another  pilgrim's  song, 
And  came  where  faded  far  away, 
Each  side,  the  kingdom's  ancient  wall, 
From  breaking  into  dying  day ; 
Beyond,  the  magic  valley  lay, 
With  glimpse  of  shimmering  stream  and  fall 
And  here,  between  twin  turrets,  ran, 
Built  o'er  with  arch  and  barbacan, 
The  entrance  to  Bohemia. 

IV 

Beneath  the  lichened  parapet 
Grim-sculptured  Gog  and  Magog  bore 
The  Royal  Arms, —  Hope's  Anchor,  set 
In  azure,  on  a  field  of  0r, 

78 


BOHEMIA 

With  pendent  mugs,  and  hands  that  wield 
A  lute  and  tambour,  graven  clear ; 
What  seemed  a  poet's  scroll  revealed 
The  antique  legend  of  the  shield  : 
<J5ambrimt0.  Hep*  Mfce*  ^aegaille*  Ijere. 
3Topneti.  toitft.  j>e«  l&ing;e*  of.  ptoetot* 
€>,  tuorlfcMuorne,  pilgrim,  pascc,  bclotue. 
Co*  cntte*  fapre*  Soljemta, 


No  churlish  warder  barred  the  gate, 
Nor  other  pass  was  needed  there 
Than  equal  heart  for  either  fate, 
And  barren  scrip,  and  hope  to  spare. 
Through  the  gray  archway,  hand  in  hand, 
We  walked,  beneath  the  rampart  high, 
And  on  within  the  wondrous  land ; 
There,  changed  as  by  enchanter's  wand, 
My  sweetheart,  fairer  to  the  eye 
Than  ever,  moved  along  serene 
In  hood  and  cloak,  —  a  gypsy  queen, 
Born  princess  of  Bohemia  ! 

VI 

A  fairy  realm  !  where  slope  and  stream, 
Champaign  and  upland,  town  and  grange, 
Like  shadowy  shirtings  of  a  dream, 
Forever  blend  and  interchange  ; 
A  magic  clime  !  where,  hour  by  hour, 
Storm,  cloud,  and  sunshine,  fleeting  by, 
Commingle,  and,  through  shine  and  shower, 
Bright  castles,  lit  with  rainbows,  tower, 
Emblazoning  the  distant  sky 

With  glimmering  glories  of  a  land 

Far  off,  yet  ever  close  at  hand 
As  hope,  in  brave  Bohemia. 
79 


POEMS    OF   MANHATTAN 

VII 

On  either  side  the  travelled  way, 
Encamped  along  the  sunny  downs, 
The  blithesome,  bold  Bohemians  lay ; 
Or  hid,  in  quaintly-gabled  towns, 
At  smoke-stained  inns  of  musty  date, 
And  spider-haunted  attic  nooks 
In  empty  houses  of  the  great, 
Still  smacking  of  their  ancient  state,  — 
Strewn  round  with  pipes  and  mouldy  books, 
And  robes  and  buskins  over-worn, 
That  well  become  the  careless  scorn 
And  freedom  of  Bohemia. 


VIII 

For,  loving  Beauty,  and,  by  chance, 
Too  poor  to  make  her  all  in  all, 
They  spurn  her  half-way  maintenance, 
And  let  things  mingle  as  they  fall ; 
Dissevered  from  all  other  climes, 
Yet  compassing  the  whole  round  world, 
Where'er  are  jests,  and  jousts  at  rhymes, 
True  love,  and  careless,  jovial  times, 
Great  souls  by  jilting  Fortune  whirled, 
Men  that  were  born  before  their  day, 
Kingly,  without  a  realm  to  sway, 
Yet  monarchs  in  Bohemia  ; 

IX 

And  errant  wielders  of  the  quill ; 
And  old-world  princes,  strayed  afar, 
In  threadbare  exile  chasing  still 
The  glimpses  of  a  natal  star  ; 
And  Woman  —  taking  refuge  there 
With  woman's  toil,  and  trust,  and  song, 
80 


BOHEMIA 

And  something  of  a  piquant  air 
Defiant,  as  who  must  and  dare 
Steer  her  own  shallop,  right  or  wrong. 
A  certain  noble  nature  schools, 
In  scorn  of  smaller,  mincing  rules, 
The  maidens  of  Bohemia. 


But  we  pursued  our  pilgrimage 

Far  on,  through  hazy  lengths  of  road, 

Or  crumbling  cities  gray  with  age ; 

And  stayed  in  many  a  queer  abode, 

Days,  seasons,  years,  —  wherein  were  born 

Of  infant  pilgrims,  one,  two,  three; 

And  ever,  though  with  travel  worn, 

Nor  garnered  for  the  morrow's  morn, 

We  seemed  a  merry  company,— 

We,  and  the  mates  whom  friendship,  or 
What  sunshine  fell  within  our  door, 
Drew  to  us  in  Bohemia. 


XI 

For  Ambrose — priest  without  a  cure  — 
Christened  our  babes,  and  drank  the  wine 
He  blessed,  to  make  the  blessing  sure ; 
And  Ralph,  the  limner —  half-divine 
The  picture  of  my  Blanche  he  drew, 
As  Saint  Cecilia  'mong  the  caves,— 
She  singing ;  eyes  a  holy  blue, 
Upturned  and  rapturous ;  hair,  in  hue, 
Gold  rippled  into  amber  waves. 

There,  too,  is  wayward,  wild  Annette, 
Danseuse  and  warbler  and  grisette, 
True  daughter  of  Bohemia. 


81 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 


XII 

But  all  by  turns  and  nothing  long ; 
And  Rose,  whose  needle  gains  her  bread  j 
And  bookish  Sibyl,  —  she  whose  tongue 
The  bees  of  Hybla  must  have  fed ; 
And  one  —  a  poet  —  nowise  sage 
For  self,  but  gay  companion  boon 
And  prophet  of  the  golden  age ; 
He  joined  us  in  our  pilgrimage 
Long  since,  one  early  Autumn  noon 

When,  faint  with  journeying,  we  sate 

Within  a  wayside  hostel-gate 
To  rest  us  in  Bohemia. 

XIII 

In  rusty  garb,  but  with  an  air 
Of  grace,  that  hunger  could  not  whelm, 
He  told  his  wants,  and  —  "Could  we  spare 
Aught  of  the  current  of  the  realm  — 
A  shilling  ?  "  —  which  I  gave  ;  and  so 
Came  talk,  and  Blanche's  kindly  smile ; 
Whereat  he  felt  his  heart  aglow, 
And  said :  "  Lo,  here  is  silver  !  lo, 
Mine  host  hath  ale  !  and  it  were  vile, 
If  so  much  coin  were  spent  by  me 
For  bread,  when  such  good  company 
Is  gathered  in  Bohemia." 

XIV 

Richer  than  Kaiser  on  his  throne, 
A  royal  stoup  he  bade  them  bring ; 
And  so,  with  many  of  mine  own, 
His  shilling  vanished  on  the  wing ; 
And  many  a  skyward-floating  strain 
He  sang,  we  chorusing  the  lay 
82 


BOHEMIA 

Till  all  the  hostel  rang  again ; 

But  when  the  day  began  to  wane, 

Along  the  sequel  of  our  way 

He  kept  us  pace ;  and,  since  that  time, 
We  never  lack  for  song  and  rhyme 
To  cheer  us,  in  Bohemia. 


xv 


And  once  we  stopped  a  twelvemonth,  where 

Five-score  Bohemians  began 

Their  scheme  to  cheapen  bed  and  fare, 

Upon  a  late-discovered  plan ; 
"  For  see,"  they  said,  "  the  sum  how  small 

By  which  one  pilgrim's  wants  are  met ! 

And  if  a  host  together  fall, 

What  need  of  any  cash  at  all  ?  " 

Though  how  it  worked  I  half  forget, 
Yet  still  the  same  old  dance  and  song 
We  found,-— the  kindly,  blithesome  throng 
And  joyance  of  Bohemia. 


XVI 


Thus  onward  through  the  Magic  Land, 
With  varying  chance.  But  once  there  past 
A  mystic  shadow  o'er  our  band, 
Deeper  than  Want  could  ever  cast, 
For,  oh,  it  darkened  little  eyes  ! 
We  saw  our  youngest  darling  die, 
Then  robed  her  in  her  palmer's  guise, 
And  crossed  the  fair  hands  pilgrim-wise, 
And,  one  by  one,  so  tenderly, 

Came  Ambrose,  Sibyl,  Ralph,  and  Rose, 
Strewing  each  sweetest  flower  that  grows 
In  wildwoods  of  Bohemia. 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 


XVII 

But  last  the  Poet,  sorrowing,  stood 

Above  the  tiny  clay,  and  said : 
u  Bright  little  Spirit,  pure  and  good, 

Whither  so  far  away  hast  fled  ? 

Full  soon  thou  tryest  that  other  sphere: 

Whate'er  is  lacking  in  our  lives 

Thou  dost  attain ;  for  Heaven  is  near, 

Methinks,  to  pilgrims  wandering  here, 

As  to  that  one  who  never  strives 

With  fortune,  —  has  not  come  to  know 
The  pride  and  pain  that  dwell  so  low 
In  valleys  of  Bohemia." 

XVIII 

He  ceased,  and  pointed  solemnly 

Through  western  windows ;  and  we  saw 

That  lustrous  castle  of  the  sky 

Gleam,  touched  with  flame ;  and  heard  with  awe, 

About  us,  gentle  whisperings 

Of  unseen  watchers  hovering  near 

Our  dead,  and  rustling  angel  wings  ! 

Now,  whether  this  or  that  year  brings 

The  valley's  end,  or,  haply,  here 

Our  pilgrimage  for  life  must  last, 

We  know  not ;  but  a  sacred  past 
Has  hallowed  all  Bohemia. 


THE    BALLAD   OF    LAGER   BIER 

IN  fallow  college  days,  Tom  Harland, 
We  both  have  known  the  ways  of  Yale, 

And  talked  of  many  a  nigh  and  far  land, 
O'er  many  a  famous  tap  of  ale. 


THE   BALLAD    OF   LAGER   BIER 

There  still  they  sing  their  Gaudeamus, 

And  see  the  road  to  glory  clear ; 
But  taps,  that  in  our  day  were  famous, 

Have  given  place  to  Lager  Bier. 

Now,  settled  in  this  island-city, 

We  let  new  fashions  have  their  weight; 
Though  none  too  lucky  —  more 's  the  pity!  — 

Can  still  beguile  our  humble  state 
By  rinding  time  to  come  together, 

In  every  season  of  the  year, 
In  sunny,  wet,  or  windy  weather, 

And  clink  our  mugs  of  Lager  Bier. 

On  winter  evenings,  cold  and  blowing, 

'T  is  good  to  order  " 'alf-and-'alf "  ; 
To  watch  the  fire-lit  pewter  glowing, 

And  laugh  a  hearty  English  laugh ; 
Or  even  a  sip  of  mountain  whiskey 

Can  raise  a  hundred  phantoms  dear 
Of  days  when  boyish  blood  was  frisky, 

And  no  one  heard  of  Lager  Bier. 

We've  smoked  in  summer  with  Oscanyan, 

Cross-legged  in  that  defunct  bazaar, 
Until  above  our  heads  the  banyan 

Or  palm-tree  seemed  to  spread  afar ; 
And,  then  and  there,  have  drunk  his  sherbet, 

Tinct  with  the  roses  of  Cashmere : 
That  Orient  calm  !  who  would  disturb  it 

With  Norseland  calls  for  Lager  Bier  ? 

There  's  Paris  chocolate,  —  nothing  sweeter, 
At  midnight,  when  the  dying  strain, 

Just  warbled  by  La  Favorita, 

Still  hugs  the  music-haunted  brain ; 
85 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Yet  of  all  bibulous  compoundings, 
Extracts  or  brewings,  mixed  or  clear, 

The  best,  in  substance  and  surroundings, 
For  frequent  use,  is  Lager  Bier. 

Karl  Schaeffer  is  a  stalwart  brewer, 

Who  has  above  his  vaults  a  hall, 
Where  —  fresh-tapped,  foaming,  cool,  and  pure  - 

He  serves  the  nectar  out  to  all. 
Tom  Harland,  have  you  any  money  ? 

Why,  then,  we  '11  leave  this  hemisphere, 
This  western  land  of  milk  and  honey, 

For  one  that  flows  with  Lager  Bier. 

Go,  flaxen-haired  and  blue-eyed  maiden, 

My  German  Hebe  !  hasten  through 
Yon  smoke-cloud,  and  return  thou  laden 

With  bread  and  cheese  and  bier  for  two. 
Limburger  suits  this  bearded  fellow  ; 

His  brow  is  high,  his  taste  severe : 
But  I  'm  for  Schweitzer,  mild  and  yellow, 

To  eat  with  bread  and  Lager  Bier. 

Ah,  yes  !  the  Schweitzer  hath  a  savor 

Of  marjoram  and  mountain  thyme, 
An  odoriferous,  Alpine  flavor ; 

You  almost  hear  the  cow-bells  chime 
While  eating  it,  or,  dying  faintly, 

The  Ranz-des-vackes  entrance  the  ear, 
Until  you  feel  quite  Swiss  and  saintly, 

Above  your  glass  of  Lager  Bier. 

Here  comes  our  drink,  froth-crowned  and  sunlit, 
In  goblets  with  high-curving  arms, 

Drawn  from  a  newly  opened  runlet, 
As  bier  must  be,  to  have  its  charms. 
86 


THE   BALLAD   OF   LAGER   BIER 

This  primal  portion  each  shall  swallow 

At  one  draught,  for  a  pioneer ; 
And  thus  a  ritual  usage  follow 

Of  all  who  honor  Lager  Bier. 

Glass  after  glass  in  due  succession, 

Till,  borne  through  midriff,  heart,  and  brain, 
He  mounts  his  throne  and  takes  possession, — 

The  genial  Spirit  of  the  grain  ! 
Then  comes  the  old  Berserker  madness 

To  make  each  man  a  priest  and  seer, 
And,  with  a  Scandinavian  gladness, 

Drink  deeper  draughts  of  Lager  Bier  ! 

Go,  maiden,  fill  again  our  glasses  ! 

While,  with  anointed  eyes,  we  scan 
The  blouse  Teutonic  lads  and  lasses, 

The  Saxon  —  Pruss  —  Bohemian, 
The  sanded  floor,  the  cross-beamed  gables, 

The  ancient  Flemish  paintings  queer, 
The  rusty  cup-stains  on  the  tables, 

The  terraced  kegs  of  Lager  Bier. 

And  is  it  Gottingen,  or  Gotha, 

Or  Munich's  ancient  Wagner  Brei, 
Where  each  Bavarian  drinks  his  quota, 

And  swings  a  silver  tankard  high  ? 
Or  some  ancestral  Gast-Haus  lofty 

In  Nuremberg  —  of  famous  cheer 
When  Hans  Sachs  lived,  and  where,  so  oft,  he 

Sang  loud  the  praise  of  Lager  Bier  ? 

For  even  now  some  curious  glamour 
Has  brought  about  a  misty  change  ! 

Things  look,  as  in  a  moonlight  dream,  or 
Magician's  mirror,  quaint  and  strange. 


POEMS    OF   MANHATTAN 

Some  weird,  phantasmagoric  notion 
Impels  us  backward  many  a  year, 

And  far  across  the  northern  ocean, 
To  Fatherlands  of  Lager  Bier. 

As  odd  a  throng  I  see  before  us 

As  ever  haunted  Brocken's  height, 
Carousing,  with  unearthly  chorus, 

On  any  wild  Walpurgis-night ; 
I  see  the  wondrous  art-creations  ! 

In  proper  guise  they  all  appear, 
And,  in  their  due  and  several  stations, 

Unite  in  drinking  Lager  Bier. 

I  see  in  yonder  nook  a  trio  : 

There's  Doctor  Faust,  and,  by  his  side, 
Not  half  so  love-distraught  as  lo, 

Is  gentle  Margaret,  heaven-eyed ; 
That  man  in  black  beyond  the  waiter  — 

I  know  him  by  his  fiendish  leer  — 
Is  Mephistophiles,  the  traitor  ! 

And  how  he  swigs  his  Lager  Bier ! 

Strange  if  great  Goethe  should  have  blundered, 

Who  says  that  Margaret  slipt  and  fell 
In  Anno  Domini  Sixteen  Hundred, 

Or  thereabout ;  and  Faustus,  —  well, 
We  won't  deplore  his  resurrection, 

Since  Margaret  is  with  him  here, 
But,  under  her  serene  protection, 

May  boldly  drink  our  Lager  Bier. 

That  bare-legged  gypsy,  small  and  lithy, 
Tanned  like  an  olive  by  the  sun, 

Is  little  Mignon  ;  sing  us,  prithee, 
Kennst  Du  das  Land,  my  pretty  one ! 
88 


THE   BALLAD  OF   LAGER  BIER 

Ah,  no !  she  shakes  her  southern  tresses, 
As  half  in  doubt  and  more  in  fear ; 

Perhaps  the  elvish  creature  guesses 
We  've  had  too  much  of  Lager  Bier. 

There  moves,  full-bodiced,  ripe,  and  human, 

With  merry  smiles  to  all  who  come, 
Karl  Schaeffer's  wife,  —  the  very  woman 

Whom  Rubens  drew  his  Venus  from  ! 
But  what  a  host  of  tricksome  graces 

Play  round  our  fairy  Undine  here, 
Who  pouts  at  all  the  bearded  faces, 

And,  laughing,  brings  the  Lager  Bier. 

"  Sit  down,  nor  chase  the  vision  farther, 

You  're  tied  to  Yankee  cities  still !  " 
I  hear  you,  but  so  much  the  rather 

Should  Fancy  travel  where  she  will. 
Yet  let  the  dim  ideals  scatter ; 

One  puff,  and  lo  !  they  disappear; 
The  comet,  next,  or  some  such  matter, 

We  '11  talk  above  our  Lager  Bier. 

Now,  then,  your  eyes  begin  to  brighten, 

And  marvellous  theories  to  flow  ; 
A  philosophic  theme  you  light  on, 

And,  spurred  and  booted,  off  you  go ! 
If  e'er  —  to  drive  Apollo's  phaeton  — 

I  need  an  earthly  charioteer, 
This  tall-browed  genius  I  will  wait  on, 

And  prime  him  first  with  Lager  Bier. 

But  higher  yet,  in  middle  Heaven, 

Your  steed  seems  taking  flight,  my  friend; 

You  read  the  secret  of  the  Seven, 

And  on  through  trackless  regions  wend  ! 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Don't  vanish  in  the  Milky  Way,  for 
This  afternoon  you  're  wanted  here  j 

Come  back !  come  back !  and  help  me  pay  for 
The  bread  and  cheese  and  Lager  Bier. 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET 

A.    D.    1867 

JUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations ; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations ; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 
90 


PAN    IN   WALL    STREET 

'T  was  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty  ! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times,  —  to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head ; 

But — hidden  thus  —  there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted ; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley  ; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 

A  boxer  y^gon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng,  — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper : 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her,  — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands,  — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 

So  thought  I,  —  but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead !  "   —  and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways  :  —  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


92 


ISRAEL   FREYER'S   BID    FOR   GOLD 
ISRAEL   FREYER'S    BID    FOR  GOLD 

FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  24,  1869 

ZOUNDS  !  how  the  price  went  flashing  through 
Wall  street,  William,  Broad  street,  New! 
All  the  specie  in  all  the  land 
Held  in  one  Ring  by  a  giant  hand  — 
For  millions  more  it  was  ready  to  pay, 
And  throttle  the  Street  on  hangman's-day. 
Up  from  the  Gold  Pit's  nether  hell, 
While  the  innocent  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Loud  and  higher  the  bidding  rose, 
And  the  bulls,  triumphant,  faced  their  foes. 
It  seemed  as  if  Satan  himself  were  in  it : 
Lifting  it  —  one  per  cent  a  minute  — 
Through  the  bellowing  broker,  there  amid, 
Who  made  the  terrible,  final  bid  ! 
High  over  all,  and  ever  higher, 
Was  heard  the  voice  of  Israel  Freyer,  — 
A  doleful  knell  in  the  storm-swept  mart,— 
"  Five  millions  more  !  and  for  any  part 

I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Israel  Freyer  —  the  Government  Jew  — 
Good  as  the  best  —  soaked  through  and  through 
With  credit  gained  in  the  year  he  sold 
Our  Treasury's  precious  hoard  of  gold  ; 
Now  through  his  thankless  mouth  rings  out 
The  leaguers'  last  and  cruellest  shout ! 
Pity  the  shorts  ?   Not  they,  indeed, 
While  a  single  rival 's  left  to  bleed ! 
Down  come  dealers  in  silks  and  hides, 
Crowding  the  Gold  Room's  rounded  sides, 
Jostling,  trampling  each  other's  feet, 
Uttering  groans  in  the  outer  street ; 
93 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Watching,  with  upturned  faces  pale, 

The  scurrying  index  mark  its  tale ; 

Hearing  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer,  — 
That  ominous  voice,  would  it  never  tire  ? 
"  Five  millions  more !  —  for  any  part, 

(If  it  breaks  your  firm,  if  it  cracks  your  heart,) 
I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  ! '' 

One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  Can't  be  true  ! 

What  will  the  bears-at-forty  do  ? 

How  will  the  merchants  pay  their  dues  ? 

How  will  the  country  stand  the  news  ? 

What  '11  the  banks  —  but  listen  !  hold  ! 

In  screwing  upward  the  price  of  gold 

To  that  dangerous,  last,  particular  peg, 

They  had  killed  their  Goose  with  the  Golden  Egg ! 

Just  there  the  metal  came  pouring  out, 

All  ways  at  once,  like  a  waterspout, 

Or  a  rushing,  gushing,  yellow  flood, 

That  drenched  the  bulls  wherever  they  stood  ! 

Small  need  to  open  the  Washington  main, 

Their  coffer-dams  were  burst  with  the  strain  ! 
It  came  by  runners,  it  came  by  wire, 
To  answer  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer, 

It  poured  in  millions  from  every  side, 

And  almost  strangled  him  as  he  cried, — 
"  I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Like  Vulcan  after  Jupiter's  kick, 
Or  the  aphoristical  Rocket's  stick, 
Down,  down,  down,  the  premium  fell, 
Faster  than  this  rude  rhyme  can  tell ! 
Thirty  per  cent  the  index  slid, 
Yet  Freyer  still  kept  making  his  bid, — 
"  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  for  any  part !  " 
• — The  sudden  ruin  had  crazed  his  heart, 


94 


ISRAEL    FREYER'S    BID    FOR   GOLD 

Shattered  his  senses,  cracked  his  brain, 
And  left  him  crying  again  and  again,  — 
Still  making  his  bid  at  the  market's  top 
(Like  the  Dutchman's  leg  that  never  could  stop,) 
"  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  —  Five  Millions  more  !  " 
Till  they  dragged  him,  howling,  off  the  floor. 
The  very  last  words  that  seller  and  buyer 
Heard  from  the  mouth  of  Israel  Freyer  — 
A  cry  to  remember  long  as  they  live  — 
Were,  "  I  '11  take  Five  Millions  more  !   I  '11  give,  — 
I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Suppose  (to  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil) 

There  's  such  a  thing  as  a  Personal  Devil, 

It  would  seem  that  his  Highness  here  got  hold, 

For  once,  of  a  bellowing  Bull  in  Gold  ! 

Whether  bull  or  bear,  it  would  n't  much  matter 

Should  Israel  Freyer  keep  up  his  clatter 

On  earth  or  under  it  (as,  they  say, 

He  is  doomed)  till  the  general  Judgment  Day, 

When  the  Clerk,  as  he  cites  him  to  answer  for  Jt, 

Shall  bid  him  keep  silence  in  that  Court ! 

But  it  matters  most,  as  it  seems  to  me, 

That  my  countrymen,  great  and  strong  and  free, 

So  marvel  at  fellows  who  seem  to  win, 

That  if  even  a  Clown  can  only  begin 

By  stealing  a  railroad,  and  use  its  purse 

For  cornering  stocks  and  gold,  or — worse  — 

For  buying  a  Judge  and  Legislature, 

And  sinking  still  lower  poor  human  nature, 

The  gaping  public,  whatever  befall, 

Will  swallow  him,  tandem,  harlots,  and  all ! 

While  our  rich  men  drivel  and  stand  amazed 

At  the  dust  and  pother  his  gang  have  raised, 

And  make  us  remember  a  nursery  tale 

Of  the  four-and-twenty  who  feared  one  snail. 


95 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  breed,  you  know; 

Clowns  and  their  trainers,  high  and  low, 

Will  cut  such  capers,  long  as  they  dare, 

While  honest  Poverty  says  its  prayer. 

But  tell  me  what  prayer  or  fast  can  save 

Some  hoary  candidate  for  the  grave, 

The  market's  wrinkled  Giant  Despair, 

Muttering,  brooding,  scheming  there,  — 

Founding  a  college  or  building  a  church 

Lest  Heaven  should  leave  him  in  the  lurch  ! 

Better  come  out  in  the  rival  way, 

Issue  your  scrip  in  open  day, 

And  pour  your  wealth  in  the  grimy  fist 

Of  some  gross-mouthed,  gambling  pugilist ; 

Leave  toil  and  poverty  where  they  lie, 

Pass  thinkers,  workers,  artists,  by, 

Your  pot-house  fag  from  his  counters  bring 

And  make  him  into  a  Railway  King ! 

Between  such  Gentiles  and  such  Jews 

Little  enough  one  finds  to  choose : 

Either  the  other  will  buy  and  use, 

Eat  the  meat  and  throw  him  the  bone, 

And  leave  him  to  stand  the  brunt  alone. 

—  Let  the  tempest  come,  that 's  gathering  near, 
And  give  us  a  better  atmosphere ! 

THE    OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 

THE  second  landing-place.  Above, 

Sun-pictures  for  a  shilling  each. 
Below,  a  haunt  that  Teutons  love, — 

Beer,  smoke,  and  pretzels  all  in  reach, 
Between  the  two,  a  mouldy  nook 

Where  loungers  hunt  for  things  of  worth  — 
Engraving,  curio,  or  book  — 

Here  drifted  from  all  over  Earth. 


THE    OLD    PICTURE-DEALER 

Be  the  day's  traffic  more  or  less, 

Old  Brian  seeks  his  Leyden  chair 
Placed  in  the  anteroom's  recess, 

Our  connoisseur's  securest  lair : 
Here,  turning  full  the  burner's  rays, 

Holds  long  his  treasure-trove  in  sight, 

Upon  a  painting  sets  his  gaze 

Like  some  devoted  eremite. 

The  book-worms  rummage  as  they  will, 

Loud  roars  the  wonted  Broadway  din, 
Life  runs  its  hackneyed  round,  —  but  still 

One  tireless  boon  can  Brian  win,  — 
Can  picture  in  this  modern  time 

A  life  no  more  the  world  shall  know, 
And  dream  of  Beauty  at  her  prime 

In  Parma,  with  Correggio. 

Withered  the  dealer's  face,  and  old, 

But  wearing  yet  the  first  surprise 
Of  him  whose  eyes  the  light  behold 

Of  Italy  and  Paradise  : 
Forever  blest,  forever  young, 

The  rapt  Madonna  poises  there, 
Her  praise  by  hovering  cherubs  sung, 

Her  robes  by  ether  buoyed,  not  air. 

See  from  the  graybeard's  meerschaum  float 

A  cloud  of  incense  !   Day  or  night, 
He  needs  must  steal  apart  to  note 

Her  grace,  her  consecrating  light. 
With  less  ecstatic  worship  lay, 

Before  his  marble  goddess  prone, 
The  crippled  poet,  that  last  day 

When  in  the  Louvre  he  made  his  moan. 


97 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Warm  grows  the  radiant  masterpiece, 

The  sweetness  of  Correggio  ! 
The  visionary  hues  increase, 

Angelic  lustres  come  and  go  ; 
And  still,  as  still  in  Parma  too,  — 

In  Rome,  Bologna,  Florence,  all,  — 
Goes  on  the  outer  world's  ado, 

Life's  transitory,  harsh  recall. 

A  real  Correggio  ?  And  here  ! 

Yes,  to  the  one  impassioned  heart, 
Transfiguring  all,  the  strokes  appear     . 

That  mark  the  perfect  master's  art. 
You  question  of  the  proof?   You  owe 

More  faith  to  fact  than  fancy  ?   Hush! 
Look  with  expectant  eyes,  and  know, 

With  him,  the  hand  that  held  the  brush  ! 

The  same  wild  thought  that  warmed  from  stone 

The  Venus  of  the  monkish  Gest, 
The  image  of  Pygmalion, 

Here  finds  Correggio  confest. 
And  Art  requires  its  votary  : 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  herself  may  pine 
When  these  quaint  rooms  no  longer  see 

The  one  that  knew  her  all  divine. 

Ah,  me  !  ah  me,  for  centuries  veiled  ! 

(The  desolate  Virgin  then  may  say,) 
Once  more  my  rainbow  tints  are  paled 

With  that  unquestioning  soul  away  — 
Whose  faith  compelled  the  sun,  the  stars, 

To  yield  their  halos  for  my  sake, 
And  saw  through  Time's  obscuring  bars 

The  Parmese  master's  glory  break! 


1883. 


THE   DIAMOND   WEDDING 


THE    DIAMOND   WEDDING 

O  LOVE  !   Love  !  Love  !  what  times  were  those, 
Long  ere  the  age  of  belles  and  beaux 
And  Brussels  lace  and  silken  hose, 
When,  in  the  green  Arcadian  close, 
You  married  Psyche,  under  the  rose, 

With  only  the  grass  for  bedding ! 
Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 
You  followed  Nature's  sweet  command  — 
Roaming  lovingly  through  the  land, 

Nor  sighed  for  a  Diamond  Wedding. 

So  have  we  read,  in  classic  Ovid, 
How  Hero  watched  for  her  beloved, 

Impassioned  youth,  Leander. 
She  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  wrapt  him  round  with  her  golden  hair, 
Whenever  he  landed  cold  and  bare, 
With  nothing  to  eat  and  nothing  to  wear 

And  wetter  than  any  gander; 
For  Love  was  Lovex  and  better  than  money ; 
The  slyer  the  theft,  the  sweeter  the  honey ; 
And  kissing  was  clover,  all  the  world  over, 

Wherever  Cupid  might  wander. 

So  thousands  of  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  still  the  moon  is  shining  on, 

Still  Hymen's  torch  is  lighted  ; 
And  hitherto,  in  this  land  of  the  West, 
Most  couples  in  love  have  thought  it  best 
To  follow  the  ancient  way  of  the  rest, 

And  quietly  get  united. 

But  now,  True  Love,  you  're  growing  old  — 
Bought  and  sold,  with  silver  and  gold, 
99 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

Like  a  house,  or  a  horse  and  carriage ! 
Midnight  talks, 
Moonlight  walks, 

The  glance  of  the  eye  and  sweetheart  sigh, 
The  shadowy  haunts  with  no  one  by, 
I  do  not  wish  to  disparage ; 
But  every  kiss 
Has  a  price  for  its  bliss, 
In  the  modern  code  of  marriage ; 
And  the  compact  sweet 
Is  not  complete, 
Till  the  high  contracting  parties  meet 

Before  the  altar  of  Mammon ; 
And  the  bride  must  be  led  to  a  silver  bower, 
Where  pearls  and  rubies  fall  in  a  shower 
That  would  frighten  Jupiter  Ammon  ! 

I  need  not  tell 
How  it  befell, 

(Since  Jenkins  has  told  the  story 
Over  and  over  and  over  again, 
In  a  style  I  cannot  hope  to  attain, 

And  covered  himself  with  glory  !) 
How  it  befell,  one  Summer's  day, 
The  King  of  the  Cubans  strolled  this  way,  — 
King  January's  his  name,  they  say, — 
And  fell  in  love  with  the  Princess  May, 

The  reigning  belle  of  Manhattan  ; 
Nor  how  he  began  to  smirk  and  sue, 
And  dress  as  lovers  who  come  to  woo, 
Or  as  Max  Maretzek  and  Jullien  do, 
When  they  sit,  full-bloomed,  in  the  ladies'  view, 

And  flourish  the  wondrous  baton. 

He  was  n't  one  of  your  Polish  nobles, 
Whose  presence  their  country  somehow  troubles, 
And  so  our  cities  receive  them ; 

100 


THE   DIAMOND   WEDDING 

Nor  one  of  your  make-believe  Spanish  grandees, 
Who  ply  our  daughters  with  lies  and  candies, 

Until  the  poor  girls  believe  them. 
No,  he  was  no  such  charlatan  — 
Count  de  Hoboken  Flash-in-the-pan, 
Full  of  gasconade  and  bravado, 
But  a  regular,  rich  Don  Rataplan 
Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 
Senor  Grandisimo  Bastinado  ! 
His  was  the  rental  of  half  Havana 
And  all  Matanzas;  and  Santa  Ana, 
Rich  as  he  was,  could  hardly  hold 
A  candle  to  light  the  mines  of  gold 
Our  Cuban  owned,  choke-full  of  diggers; 
And  broad  plantations,  that,  in  round  figures, 
Were  stocked  with  at  least  five  thousand  niggers 

u  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may  !  " 
The  Senor  swore  to  carry  the  day, 
To  capture  the  beautiful  Princess  May, 

With  his  battery  of  treasure ; 
Velvet  and  lace  she  should  not  lack ; 
Tiffany,  Haughwout,  Ball  &  Black, 
Genin  and  Stewart,  his  suit  should  back 

And  come  and  go  at  her  pleasure ; 
Jet  and  lava  —  silver  and  gold  — 
Garnets  —  emeralds  rare  to  behold  — 
Diamonds  —  sapphires  —  wealth  untold 
All  were  hers,  to  have  and  to  hold; 

Enough  to  fill  a  peck-measure ! 

He  did  n't  bring  all  his  forces  on 
At  once,  but  like  a  crafty  old  Don, 
Who  many  a  heart  had  fought  and  won, 

Kept  bidding  a  little  higher ; 
And  every  time  he  made  his  bid, 
And  what  she  said,  and  all  they  did — 
101 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

'T  was  written  down, 
For  the  good  of  the  town, 
By  Jeems,  of  The  Daily  Flyer. 

A  coach  and  horses,  you  Jd  think,  would  buy 
For  the  Don  an  easy  victory  ; 

But  slowly  our  Princess  yielded. 
A  diamond  necklace  caught  her  eye, 
But  a  wreath  of  pearls  first  made  her  sigh. 
She  knew  the  worth  of  each  maiden  glance, 
And,  like  young  colts,  that  curvet  and  prance, 
She  led  the  Don  a  deuce  of  a  dance, 

In  spite  of  the  wealth  he  wielded. 

She  stood  such  a  fire  of  silks  and  laces, 
Jewels,  and  golden  dressing-cases, 
And  ruby  brooches,  and  jets  and  pearls, 
That  every  one  of  her  dainty  curls 
Brought  the  price  of  a  hundred  common  girls ; 

Folks  thought  the  lass  demented  ! 
But  at  last  a  wonderful  diamond  ring, 
An  infant  Koh-i-noor,  did  the  thing, 
And,  sighing  with  love,  or  something  the  same, 
(What 's  in  a  name  ?) 

The  Princess  May  consented. 

Ring  !   ring  the  bells,  and  bring 

The  people  to  see  the  marrying ! 

Let  the  gaunt  and  hungry  and  ragged  poor 

Throng  round  the  great  Cathedral  door, 

To  wonder  what  all  the  hubbub  's  for, 

And  sometimes  stupidly  wonder 
At  so  much  sunshine  and  brightness,  which 
Fall  from  the  church  upon  the  rich, 

While  the  poor  get  all  the  thunder. 


IO2 


THE    DIAMOND    WEDDING 

Ring !  ring,  merry  bells,  ring ! 
O  fortunate  few, 
With  letters  blue, 

Good  for  a  seat  and  a  nearer  view  ! 
Fortunate  few,  whom  I  dare  not  name  ; 
Dilettanti  !    Creme  de  la  creme  ! 
We  commoners  stood  by  the  street  facade 
And  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cavalcade ; 
We  saw  the  bride 
In  diamonded  pride, 

With  jewelled  maidens  to  guard  her  side,  — 
Six  lustrous  maidens  in  tarletan. 
She  led  the  van  of  the  caravan  ; 

Close  behind  her,  her  mother 
(Dressed  in  gorgeous  moire  antique, 
That  told,  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak, 
She  was  more  antique  than  the  other,) 

Leaned  on  the  arm  of  Don  Rataplan 
Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 
Senor  Grandisimo  Bastinado. 

Happy  mortal !   fortunate  man  ! 
And  Marquis  of  El  Dorado  ! 

In  they  swept,  all  riches  and  grace, 
Silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  lace ; 
In  they  swept  from  the  dazzled  sun, 
And  soon  in  the  church  the  deed  was  done. 
Three  prelates  stood  on  the  chancel  high : 
A  knot  that  gold  and  silver  can  buy 
Gold  and  silver  may  yet  untie, 

Unless  it  is  tightly  fastened ; 
What 's  worth  doing  at  all  's  worth  doing  well, 
And  the  sale  of  a  young  Manhattan  belle 

Is  not  to  be  pushed  or  hastened ; 
So  two  Very-Reverends  graced  the  scene, 
And  the  tall  Archbishop  stood  between, 

By  prayer  and  fasting  chastened. 
103 


POEMS    OF    MANHATTAN 

The  Pope  himself  would  have  come  from  Rome, 

But  Garibaldi  kept  him  at  home. 

Haply  these  robed  prelates  thought 

Their  words  were  the  power  that  tied  the  knot ; 

But  another  power  that  love-knot  tied, 

And  I  saw  the  chain  round  the  neck  of  the  bride,  — 

A  glistening,  priceless,  marvellous  chain, 

Coiled  with  diamonds  again  and  again, 

As  befits  a  diamond  wedding; 

Yet  still  't  was  a  chain,  and  I  thought  she  knew  it, 
And  half-way  longed  for  the  will  to  undo  it, 

By  the  secret  tears  she  was  shedding. 

But  is  n't  it  odd,  to  think  whenever 
We  all  go  through  that  terrible  River, — 
Whose  sluggish  tide  alone  can  sever 
(The  Archbishop  says)  the  Church  decree, 
By  floating  one  into  Eternity 
And  leaving  the  other  alive  as  ever,  — 
As  each  wades  through  that  ghastly  stream, 
The  satins  that  rustle  and  gems  that  gleam 
Will  grow  pale  and  heavy,  and  sink  away 
To  the  noisome  River's  bottom-clay ; 
Then  the  costly  bride  and  her  maidens  six 
Will  shiver  upon  the  banks  of  the  Styx, 
Quite  as  helpless  as  they  were  born, — 
Naked  souls,  and  very  forlorn  ; 
The  Princess,  then,  must  shift  for  herself, 
And  lay  her  royalty  on  the  shelf; 
She,  and  the  beautiful  Empress,  yonder, 
Whose  robes  are  now  the  wide  world's  wonder, 
And  even  ourselves,  and  our  dear  little  wives, 
Who  calico  wear  each  morn  of  their  lives, 
And  the  sewing  girls,  and  les  chiffonniers, 
In  rags  and  hunger,  —  a  gaunt  array,  — 
And  all  the  grooms  of  the  caravan  — 
Ay,  even  the  great  Don  Rataplan 
104 


THE    DIAMOND    WEDDING 

Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 

Senor  Grandisimo  Bastinado  — 

That  gold-encrusted,  fortunate  man  !  — 

All  will  land  in  naked  equality  : 

The  lord  of  a  ribboned  principality 

Will  mourn  the  loss  of  his  cordon. 
Nothing  to  eat,  and  nothing  to  wear 
Will  certainly  be  the  fashion  there  ! 
Ten  to  one,  and  I  '11  go  it  alone, 
Those  most  used  to  a  rag  and  bone, 
Though  here  on  earth  they  labor  and  groan, 
Will  stand  it  best,  as  they  wade  abreast 

To  the  other  side  of  Jordan. 


POEMS   OF   NEW   ENGLAND 


THE  DOORSTEP 

THE  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level-musket  flashes  litten, 
Than  I,  that  stepped  before  them  all 
Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no,  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm  ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lovers*  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

JT  was  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story ; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming 

By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 

Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 

O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it !  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 
109 


POEMS   OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'T  was  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood 

And  with  a  u  Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled, 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"  Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  do  it !  " 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth, —  I  kissed  her! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover ! 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 

1  Jd  give  —  but  who  can  live  youth  over . 


THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW 

ONCE  more  on  the  fallow  hillside,  as  of  old,  I  lie  at  rest 
For  an  hour,  while  the  sunshine  trembles  through  the  wal 
nut-tree  to  the  west, — 
1 10 


THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW 

Shakes  on  the  rocks  and  fragrant  ferns,  and  the  berry-bushes 
around ; 

And  I  watch, as  of  old,  the  cattle  graze  in  the  lower  pasture- 
ground. 

Of  the  Saxon  months  of  blossom,  when  the  merle  and  mavis 
sing, 

And  a  dust  of  gold  falls  everywhere  from  the  soft  midsum 
mer's  wing, 

I  only  know  from  my  poets,  or  from  pictures  that  hither  come, 

Sweet  with  the  smile  of  the  hawthorn-hedge  and  the  scent 
of  the  harvest-home. 

But  July  in  our  own  New  England  —  I  bask  myself  in  its 
prime, 

As  one  in  the  light  of  a  face  he  loves,  and  has  not  seen  for 
a  time  ! 

Again  the  perfect  blue  of  the  sky ;  the  fresh  green  woods ; 
the  call 

Of  the  crested  jay ;  the  tangled  vines  that  cover  the  frost- 
thrown  wall : 

Sounds  and  shadows  remembered  well !   the  ground-bee's 

droning  hum ; 

The  distant  musical  tree-tops  ;  the  locust  beating  his  drum ; 
And  the  ripened  July  warmth,  that  seems  akin  to   a  fire 

which  stole, 
Long  summers  since,  through  the  thews  of  youth,  to  soften 

and  harden  my  soul. 

Here  it  was  that  I  loved  her  —  as  only  a  stripling  can, 

Who  dotes  on  a  girl  that  others  know  no  mate  for  the 
future  man  ; 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  at  last  my  pride  and  honor  out 
grew  her  art, 

That  there  came  an  hour,  when  from  broken  chains  I  fled 
—  with  a  broken  heart. 


ii  i 


POEMS    OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

'T  was  well :  but  the  fire  would  still  flash  up  in  sharp,  heat- 
lightning  gleams, 

And  ever  at  night  the  false,  fair  face  shone  into  passionate 

dreams  ; 

.     The  false,  fair  form,  through  many  a  year,  was  somewhere 
close  at  my  side, 

And  crept,  as  by  right,  to  my  very  arms  and  the  place  of 
my  patient  bride. 

Bride  and  vision  have  passed  away,  and  I  am  again 
alone ; 

Changed  by  years  ;  not  wiser,  I  think,  but  only  different 
grown  : 

Not  so  much  nearer  wisdom  is  a  man  than  a  boy,  for 
sooth, 

Though,  in  scorn  of  what  has  come  and  gone,  he  hates  the 
ways  of  his  youth. 

In  seven  years,  I  have  heard  it  said,  a  soul  shall  change  its 

frame; 
Atom  for  atom,  the  man  shall  be  the  same,  yet  not  the 

same; 
The  last  of  the  ancient  ichor   shall  pass  away  from  his 

veins, 
And  a  new-born  light  shall  fill  the  eyes  whose  earlier  lustre 

wanes. 

In  seven  years,  it  is  written,  a  man  shall  shift  his  mood; 
Good  shall  seem  what  was  evil,   and  evil  the  thing   that 

was  good: 

Ye  that  welcome  the  coming  and  speed  the  parting  guest, 
Tell  me,  O  winds  of  summer!   am-I  not  half-confest  ? 

For  along  the  tide  of  this  mellow  month  new  fancies  guide 

my  helm, 
Another  form  has  entered  my  heart  as  rightful  queen  of 

the  realm; 

I  12 


THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW 

From  under  their  long  black  lashes  new  eyes  —  half-blue, 

half-gray  — 
Pierce  through  my  soul,  to  drive  the  ghost  of  the  old  love 

quite  away. 

Shadow  of  years!  at  last  it  sinks  in  the  sepulchre  of  the 

past,  - 
A  gentle  image  and  fair  to  see;    but  was  my  passion  so 

vast  ? 
u  Eor  you,"  I  said,  "  be  you  false  or  true,  are  ever  life  of 

my  life!" 
Was  it  myself  or  another  who  spoke,  and  asked  her  to  be 

his  wife? 

For  here,  on  the  dear  old  hillside,  I  lie  at  rest  again, 

And   think  with  a  quiet  self-content  of  all  the  passion  and 

pain, 
Of  the  strong  resolve  and  the  after-strife;  but  the  vistas 

round  me  seem 
So  little  changed  that  I  hardly  know  if  the  past  is  not  a 

dream. 

Can  I  have  sailed,  for  seven  years,  far  out  in  the  open 
world ; 

Have  tacked  and  drifted  here  and  there,  by  eddying  cur 
rents  whirled; 

Have  gained  and  lost,  and  found  again;  and  now,  for  a 
respite,  come 

Once  more  to  the  happy  scenes  of  old,  and  the  haven  I 
voyaged  from? 

Blended,  infinite  murmurs  of  True  Love's  earliest  song, 

Where  are  you  slumbering  out  of  the  heart  that  gave  you 
echoes  so  long? 

But  chords  that  have  ceased  to  vibrate  the  swell  of  an  an 
cient  strain 

May  thrill  with  a  soulful  music  when  rightly  touched  again. 

"3 


POEMS    OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

Rock  and  forest  and  meadow,  —  landscape  perfect  and  true! 
O,  if  ourselves  were  tender  and  all  unchangeful  as  you, 
I  should  not  now  be  dreaming  of  seven   years  that  have 

been, 
Nor  bidding  old  love  good-by  forever,  and  letting  the  new 

love  in! 


COUNTRY    SLEIGHING 

A    NEW    SONG    TO    AN    OLD    TUNE 

IN  January,  when  down  the  dairy 

The  cream  and  clabber  freeze, 
When  snow-drifts  cover  the  fences  over, 

We  farmers  take  our  ease. 
At  night  we  rig  the  team, 

And  bring  the  cutter  out ; 
Then  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it, 

And  heap  the  furs  about. 

Here  friends  and  cousins  dash  up  by  dozens, 

And  sleighs  at  least  a  score; 
There  John  and  Molly,  behind,  are  jolly, — 

Nell  rides  with  me,  before. 
All  down  the  village  street 
.    We  range  us  in  a  row: 
Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

And  over  the  crispy  snow ! 

The  windows  glisten,  the  old  folks  listen 

To  hear  the  sleigh-bells  pass; 
The  fields  grow  whiter,  the  stars  are  brighter, 

The  road  is  smooth  as  glass. 
Our  muffled  faces  burn, 

The  clear  north-wind  grows  cold, 
The  girls  all  nestle,  nestle,  nestle, 

Each  in  her  lover's  hold. 
114 


COUNTRY   SLEIGHING 

Through  bridge  and  gateway  we  're  shooting  straight 
way, 

Their  tollman  was  too  slow ! 
He  '11  listen  after  our  song  and  laughter 

As  over  the  hill  we  go. 
The  girls  cry,  u  Fie  !   for  shame  !  " 

Their  cheeks  and  lips  are  red, 
And  so,  with  kisses,  kisses,  kisses, 

They  take  the  toll  instead. 

Still  follow,  follow!  across  the  hollow 

The  tavern  fronts  the  road. 
Whoa,  now  !  all  steady  !   the  host  is  ready,  — 

He  knows  the  country  mode  ! 
The  irons  are  in  the  fire, 

The  hissing  flip  is  got; 
So  pour  and  sip  it,  sip  it,  sip  it, 

And  sip  it  while  't  is  hot. 

Push  back  the  tables,  and  from  the  stables 

Bring  Tom,  the  fiddler,  in; 
All  take  your  places,  and  make  your  graces, 

And  let  the  dance  begin. 
The  girls  are  beating  time 

To  hear  the  music  sound; 
Now  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it, 

And  swing  your  partners  round. 

Last  couple  toward  the  left !   all  forward ! 

Cotillons  through,  let's  wheel: 
First  tune  the  fiddle,  then  down  the  middle 

In  old  Virginia  Reel. 
Play  Money  Musk  to  close, 

Then  take  the  "  long  chasse," 
While  in  to  supper,  supper,  supper, 

The  landlord  leads  the  way. 


POEMS    OF   NEW    ENGLAND 

The  bells  are  ringing,  the  ostlers  bringing 

The  cutters  up  anew; 
The  beasts  are  neighing;  too  long  we're  staying, 

The  night  is  half-way  through. 
Wrap  close  the  buffalo-robes, 

We're  all  aboard  once  more; 
Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

Away  from  the  tavern-door. 

So  follow,  follow,  by  hill  and  hollow, 

And  swiftly  homeward  glide. 
What  midnight  splendor!   how  warm  and  tender 

The  maiden  by  your  side! 
The  sleighs  drop  far  apart, 

Her  words  are  soft  and  low; 
Now,  if  you  love  her,  love  her,  love  her, 

'T  is  safe  to  tell  her  so. 


THE  HEART  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

O  LONG  are  years  of  waiting,  when  lovers'  hearts  are  bound 

By  words  that  hold  in   life  and   death,  and   last   the  half- 
world  round; 

Long,  long  for  him  who  wanders  far  and  strives  with  all  his 
main, 

But  crueller  yet   for  her  who  bides  at  home  and  hides  her 

pain  ! 
And  lone  are  the  homes  of  New  England. 

JT  was  in  the  mellow  summer  I  heard  her  sweet  reply ; 

The  barefoot  lads  and  lassies  a-berrying  went  by ; 

The  locust  dinned  amid  the  trees  ;  the  fields  were  high  with 

corn  ; 

The  white-sailed  clouds  against  the  sky  like  ships  were  on 
ward  borne  : 

And  blue  are  the  skies  of  New  England. 
116 


THE    HEART    OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

Her  lips  were  like  the  raspberries ;  her  cheek  was  soft  and 

fair, 

And  little  breezes  stopped  to  lift  the  tangle  of  her  hair; 
A  light  was  in  her  hazel  eyes,  and  she  was  nothing  loth 
To  hear  the  words  her  lover  spoke,  and  pledged  me  there 

her  troth  ; 
And  true  is  the  word  of  New  England. 

When    September     brought     the    golden-rod,   and  maples 

burned  like  fire, 
And   bluer   than    in   August  rose    the   village    smoke   and 

higher, 
And  large  and  red  among  the  stacks  the  ripened  pumpkins 

shone, — 

One  hour,  in  which  to  say  farewell,  was  left  to  us  alone ; 
And  sweet  are  the  lanes  of  New  England. 

We  loved  each  other  truly  !   hard,  hard  it  was  to  part; 
But  my  ring  was  on  her  finger,  and  her  hair  lay  next  my 

heart. 
"  'T  is  but  a   year,  my   darling,"    I    said ;  "  in   one  short 

year, 
When  our  Western  home  is  ready,  I  shall  seek  my  Katie 

here  "  ; 
And  brave  is  the  hope  of  New  England. 

.  I  went  to  gain  a  home  for  her,  and  in  the  Golden  State 
With  head  and  hand  I  planned  and  toiled,  and  early  worked 

and  late ; 

But  luck  was  all  against  me,  and  sickness  on  me  lay, 
And  ere  I  got  my  strength  again  't  was  many  a  weary  day; 
And  long  are  the  thoughts  of  New  England. 

And  many  a  day,  and  many  a  month,  and  thrice  the  tolling 

year, 
I  bravely  strove,  and  still  the  goal  seemed  never  yet  more 

near. 

117 


POEMS   OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

My  Katie's  letters  told  me  that  she  kept  her  promise  true, 
But  now,  for  very  hopelessness,  my  own  to  her  were  few ; 
And  stern  is  the  pride  of  New  England. 

But  still  she  trusted  in  me,  though  sick  with  hope  deferred ; 
No  more  among  the  village  choir  her  voice  was  sweetest 

heard ; 
For  when  the  wild  northeaster  of  the  fourth  long  winter 

blew, 
So  thin  her  frame  with   pining,  the  cold  wind  pierced  her 

through  ; 
And  chill  are  the  blasts  of  New  England. 

At  last  my  fortunes  bettered,  on  the  far  Pacific  shore, 
And  I  thought  to  see  old  Windham  and  my  patient  love 

once  more ; 
When  a  kinsman's  letter  reached  me :  "  Come  at  once,  or 

come  too  late  ! 
Your  Katie's  strength  is  failing ;  if  you    love   her,  do  not 

wait : 
Come  back  to  the  elms  of  New  England." 

O,  it  wrung  my  heart  with  sorrow  !   I  left  all  else  behind, 

And  straight   for  dear  New  England   I   speeded  like  the 
wind. 

The  day  and  night  were  blended  till   I    reached  my  boy 
hood's  home, 

And   the   old  cliffs  seemed  to   mock   me  that   I   had  not 

sooner  come; 
And  gray  are  the  rocks  of  New  England. 

I  could  not  think  't  was  Katie,  who  sat  before  me  there 
Reading  her  Bible  —  't  was  my  gift  —  and  pillowed  in  her 

chair. 

A  ring,  with  all  my  letters,  lay  on  a  little  stand,— 
She  could  no  longer  wear  it,  so  frail  her  poor,  white  hand! 
But  strong  is  the  love  of  New  England. 
118 


THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE 

Her  hair  had  lost  its  tangle  and  was  parted  off  her  brow ; 

She  used  to  be  a  joyous  girl,  —  but  seemed  an  angel  now, 

Heaven's  darling,  mine  no  longer ;  yet  in  her  hazel  eyes 
The  same  dear  love-light  glistened,  as  she  soothed  my  bit 
ter  cries  : 
And  pure  is  the  faith  of  New  England. 

A  month  I  watched  her  dying,  pale,  pale  as  any  rose 
That  drops  its  petals  one  by  one  and  sweetens  as  it  goes. 
My  life  was  darkened  when  at  last  her  large  eyes  closed  in  death, 
And  I  heard  my  own  name  whispered  as  she  drew  her  part 
ing  breath ; 
Still,  still  was  the  heart  of  New  England. 

It  was  a  woful  funeral  the  coming  sabbath-day; 

We  bore  her  to  the  barren  hill  on  which  the  graveyard  lay, 

And  when  the  narrow  grave  was  filled,  and  what  we  might 

was  done, 

Of  all  the  stricken  group  around  I  was  the  loneliest  one ; 
And  drear  are  the  hills  of  New  England. 

I  gazed  upon  the  stunted  pines,  the  bleak  November  sky, 
And  knew  that  buried   deep  with  her  my  heart  henceforth 

would  lie  ; 

And  waking  in  the  solemn  nights  my  thoughts  still  thither  go 
To  Katie,  lying  in  her  grave  beneath  the  winter  snow ; 
And  cold  are  the  snows  of  New  England 


THE    LORD'S-DAY   GALE 

BAY  ST.  LAWRENCE,  AUGUST,  1873 

IN  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft, — 
More  stanch  and  trim  were  never  seen : 

They  are  sharp  before  and  sheer  abaft, 
And  true  their  lines  the  masts  between. 
119 


POEMS    OF   NEW    ENGLAND 

Along  the  wharves  of  Gloucester  Town 
Their  fares  are  lightly  handed  down, 
And  the  laden  flakes  to  landward  lean. 

Well  know  the  men  each  cruising-ground, 
And  where  the  cod  and  mackerel  be ; 

Old  Eastern  Point  the  schooners  round 
And  leave  Cape  Ann  on  the  larboard  lee : 

Sound  are  the  planks,  the  hearts  are  bold, 

That  brave  December's  surges  cold 
On  Georges'  shoals  in  the  outer  sea. 

And  some  must  sail  to  the  banks  far  north 
And  set  their  trawls  for  the  hungry  cod,  — 

In  the  ghostly  fog  grope  back  and  forth 
By  shrouded  paths  no  foot  hath  trod ; 

Upon  the  crews  the  ice-winds  blow, 

The  bitter  sleet,  the  frozen  snow,  - 
Their  lives  are  in  the  hand  of  God  ! 

New  England  !   New  England  ! 

Needs  sail  they  must,  so  brave  and  poor, 
Or  June  be  warm  or  Winter  storm, 

Lest  a  wolf  gnaw  through  the  cottage-door ! 
Three  weeks  at  home,  three  long  months  gone, 
While  the  patient  goodwives  sleep  alone, 

And  wake  to  hear  the  breakers  roar. 

The  Grand  Bank  gathers  in  its  dead,— 
The  deep  sea-sand  is  their  winding-sheet ; 

Who  does  not  Georges'  billows  dread 
That  dash  together  the  drifting  fleet  ? 

Who  does  not  long  to  hear,  in  May, 

The  pleasant  wash  of  Saint  Lawrence  Bay, 
The  fairest  ground  where  fishermen  meet  ? 

There  the  west  wave  holds  the  red  sunlight 
Till  the  bells  at  home  are  rung  for  nine  : 
120 


THE   LORD'S-DAY    GALE 

Short,  short  the  watch,  and  calm  the  night; 

The  fiery  northern  streamers  shine ; 
The  eastern  sky  anon  is  gold, 
And  winds  from  piny  forests  old 

Scatter  the  white  mists  off  the  brine. 

The  Province  craft  with  ours  at  morn 
Are  mingled  when  the  vapors  shift; 

All  day,  by  breeze  and  current  borne, 
Across  the  bay  the  sailors  drift ; 

With  toll  and  seine  its  wealth  they  win, — 

The  dappled,  silvery  spoil  come  in 
Fast  as  their  hands  can  haul  and  lift. 

New  England  !   New  England  ! 

Thou  lovest  well  thine  ocean  main  ! 
It  spreadeth  its  locks  among  thy  rocks, 

And  long  against  thy  heart  hath  lain ; 
Thy  ships  upon  its  bosom  ride 
And  feel  the  heaving  of  its  tide; 

To  thee  its  secret  speech  is  plain. 

Cape  Breton  and  Edward  Isle  between, 
In  strait  and  gulf  the  schooners  lay  ; 

The  sea  was  all  at  peace,  I  ween, 
The  night  before  that  August  day ; 

Was  never  a  Gloucester  skipper  there, 

But  thought  erelong,  with  a  right  good  fare, 
To  sail  for  home  from  Saint  Lawrence  Bay. 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Thy  giant's  love  was  turned  to  hate ! 
The  winds  control  his  fickle  soul, 

And  in  his  wrath  he  hath  no  mate. 
Thy  shores  his  angry  scourges  tear, 
And  for  thy  children  in  his  care 

The  sudden  tempests  lie  in  wait. 

121 


POEMS   OF   NEW   ENGLAND 

The  East  Wind  gathered  all  unknown,  — 
A  thick  sea-cloud  his  course  before  ; 

He  left  by  night  the  frozen  zone 
And  smote  the  cliffs  of  Labrador ; 

He  lashed  the  coasts  on  either  hand, 

And  betwixt  the  Cape  and  Newfoundland 
Into  the  Bay  his  armies  pour. 

He  caught  our  helpless  cruisers  there 

As  a  gray  wolf  harries  the  huddling  fold ; 

A  sleet  —  a  darkness  —  filled  the  air, 
A  shuddering  wave  before  it  rolled  : 

That  Lord's-day  motn  it  was  a  breeze, — 

At  noon,  a  blast  that  shook  the  seas, — 
At  night,  —  a  wind  of  Death  took  hold  ! 

It  leapt  across  the  Breton  bar, 

A  death-wind  from  the  stormy  East ! 

It  scarred  the  land,  and  whirled  afar 

The  sheltering  thatch  of  man  and  beast ; 

It  mingled  rick  and  roof  and  tree, 

And  like  a  besom  swept  the  sea, 
And  churned  the  waters  into  yeast. 

From  Saint  Paul's  light  to  Edward  Isle 
A  thousand  craft  it  smote  amain  ; 

And  some  against  it  strove  the  while, 
And  more  to  make  a  port  were  fain  : 

The  mackerel-gulls  flew  screaming  past, 

And  the  stick  that  bent  to  the  noonday  blast 
Was  split  by  the  sundown  hurricane. 

Woe,  woe  to  those  whom  the  islands  pen  ! 

In  vain  they  shun  the  double  capes  : 
Cruel  are  the  reefs  of  Magdalen  ; 

The  Wolf's  white  fang  what  prey  escapes  ? 

122 


THE    LORD'S-DAY    GALE 

The  Grin'stone  grinds  the  bones  of  some, 
And  Coffin  Isle  is  craped  with  foam ;  — 
On  Deadman's  shore  are  fearful  shapes  ! 

O,  what  can  live  on  the  open  sea, 

Or  moored  in  port  the  gale  outride  ? 
The  very  craft  that  at  anchor  be 

Are  dragged  along  by  the  swollen  tide  ! 
The  great  storm-wave  came  rolling  west, 
And  tossed  the  vessels  on  its  crest : 

The  ancient  bounds  its  might  defied  ! 

The  ebb  to  check  it  had  no  power ; 

The  surf  ran  up  an  untold  height ; 
It  rose,  nor  yielded,  hour  by  hour, 

A  night  and  day,  a  day  and  night ; 
Far  up  the  seething  shores  it  cast 
The  wrecks  of  hull  and  spar  and  mast, 

The  strangled  crews,  —  a  woful  sight ! 

There  were  twenty  and  more  of  Breton  sail 
Fast  anchored  on  one  mooring-ground  ; 

Each  lay  within  his  neighbor's  hail 

When  the  thick  of  the  tempest  closed  them  round 

All  sank  at  once  in  the  gaping  sea,  — 

Somewhere  on  the  shoals  their  corses  be, 

The  foundered  hulks,  and  the  seamen  drowned. 

On  reef  and  bar  our  schooners  drove 

Before  the  wind,  before  the  swell ; 
By  the  steep  sand-cliffs  their  ribs  were  stove, — 

Long,  long,  their  crews  the  tale  shall  tell ! 
Of  the  Gloucester  fleet  are  wrecks  threescore; 
Of  the  Province  sail  two  hundred  more 

Were  stranded  in  that  tempest  fell. 

The  bedtime  bells  in  Gloucester  Town 
That  Sabbath  night  rang  soft  and  clear; 
123 


POEMS    OF    NEW  ENGLAND 

The  sailors'  children  laid  them  down,  — 

Dear  Lord !   their  sweet  prayers  couldst  thou  hear  ? 
'T  is  said  that  gently  blew  the  winds ; 
The  goodwives,  through  the  seaward  blinds, 

Looked  down  the  bay  and  had  no  fear. 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Thy  ports  their  dauntless  seamen  mourn  ; 
The  twin  capes  yearn  for  their  return 

Who  never  shall  be  thither  borne ; 
Their  orphans  whisper  as  they  meet ; 
The  homes  are  dark  in  many  a  street, 

And  women  move  in  weeds  forlorn. 

And  wilt  thou  quail,  and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Ah  no  !  though  widows'  cheeks  are  pale, 
The  lads  shall  say  :  "  Another  year, 

And  we  shall  be  of  age  to  sail  !  " 
And  the  mothers'  hearts  shall  fill  with  pride, 
Though  tears  drop  fast  for  them  who  died 

When  the  fleet  was  wrecked  in  the  Lord's-Day  gale. 


WITCHCRAFT 


A.    D.    1692 

SOE,  Mistress  Anne,  faire  neighbour  myne, 

How  rides  a  witche  when  nighte-winds  blowe  ? 

Folk  saye  that  you  are  none  too  goode 

To  joyne  the  crewe  in  Salem  woode, 

When  one  you  wot  of  gives  the  signe : 

Righte  well,  methinks,  the  pathe  you  knowe. 

In  Meetinge-time  I  watched  you  well, 
Whiles  godly  Master  Parris  prayed  : 
124 


WITCHCRAFT 

Your  folded  hands  laye  on  your  booke; 
But  Richard  answered  to  a  looke 
That  fain  would  tempt  him  unto  hell, 

Where,  Mistress  Anne,  your  place  is  made. 

You  looke  into  my  Richard's  eyes 

With  evill  glances  shamelesse  growne ; 
I  found  about  his  wriste  a  hair, 
And  guesse  what  fingers  tyed  it  there : 

He  shall  not  lightly  be  your  prize 

Your  Master  firste  shall  take  his  owne. 

JT  is  not  in  nature  he  should  be 

(Who  loved  me  soe  when  Springe  was  greene) 
A  childe,  to  hange  upon  your  gowne ! 
He  loved  me  well  in  Salem  Towne 
Until  this  wanton  witcherie 

His  hearte  and  myne  crept  dark  betweene. 

Last  Sabbath  nighte,  the  gossips  saye, 
Your  goodman  missed  you  from  his  side. 

He  had  no  strength  to  move,  untill 

Agen,  as  if  in  slumber  still, 

Beside  him  at  the  dawne  you  laye. 

Tell,  nowe,  what  meanwhile  did  betide. 

Dame  Anne,  mye  hate  goe  with  you  fleete 
As  driftes  the  Bay  fogg  overhead 

Or  over  yonder  hill-topp,  where 

There  is  a  tree  ripe  fruite  shall  bear 

When,  neighbour  myne,  your  wicked  feet 
The  stones  of  Gallowes  Hill  shall  tread. 


125 


POEMS    OF   NEW  ENGLAND 
II 

A.    D.    1884 

Our  great-great-grandpapas  had  schooled 

Your  fancies,  Lita,  were  you  born 
In  days  when  Cotton  Mather  ruled 

And  damask  petticoats  were  worn  ! 
Your  pretty  ways,  your  mocking  air, 

Had  passed,  mayhap,  for  Satan's  wiles  — 
As  fraught  with  danger,  then  and  there, 

To  you,  as  now  to  us  your  smiles. 

Why  not  ?   Were  inquest  to  begin, 

The  tokens  are  not  far  to  seek: 
Item  —  the  dimple  of  your  chin; 

Item  —  that  freckle  on  your  cheek. 
Grace  shield  his  simple  soul  from  harm 

Who  enters  yon  flirtation  niche, 
Or  trusts  in  whispered  counter-charm, 

Alone  with  such  a  parlous  witch  ! 

Your  fan  a  wand  is,  in  disguise ; 

It  conjures,  and  we  straight  are  drawn 
Within  a  witches'  Paradise 

Of  music,  germans,  roses,  lawn. 
So  through  the  season,  where  you  go, 

All  else  than  Lita  men  forget : 
One  needs  no  second-sight  to  know 

That  sorcery  is  rampant  yet. 

Now,  since  the  bars  no  more  await 
Fair  maids  that  practise  sable  arts, 

Take  heed,  while  I  pronounce  the  fate 
Of  her  who  thus  ensnares  men's  hearts 
126 


COUSIN    LUCRECE 

In  time  you  shall  a  wizard  meet 

With  spells  more  potent  than  your  own, 

And  you  shall  know  your  master,  Sweet, 
And  for  these  witcheries  atone. 

For  you  at  his  behest  shall  wear 

A  veil,  and  seek  with  him  the  church, 
And  at  the  altar  rail  forswear 

The  craft  that  left  you  in  the  lurch; 
But  oft  thereafter,  musing  long, 

With  smile,  and  sigh,  and  conscience-twitch, 
You  shall  too  late  confess  the  wrong  — 

A  captive  and  repentant  witch. 


COUSIN  LUCRECE 

HERE  where  the  curfew 

Still,  they  say,  rings,- 
Time  rested  long  ago, 

Folding  his  wings ; 
Here,  on  old  Norwich's 

Out-along  road, 
Cousin  Lucretia 

Had  her  abode. 

Norridge,  not  Nor-wich 

(See  Mother  Goose), 
Good  enough  English 

For  a  song's  use. 
Side  and  roof  shingled, 

All  of  a  piece, 
Here  was  the  cottage 

Of  Cousin  Lucrece. 

Living  forlornly 
On  nothing  a  year, 
127 


POEMS    OF   NEW  ENGLAND 

How  she  took  comfort 

Does  not  appear ; 
How  kept  her  body, 

On  what  they  gave, 
Out  of  the  poor-house, 

Out  of  the  grave. 

Highly  connected  ? 

Straight  as  the  Nile 
Down  from  "  the  Gard'ners  " 

Of  Gardiner's  Isle ; 
(Three  bugles,  chevron  gules, 

Hand  upon  sword), 
Great-great-granddaughter 

Of  the  third  lord. 

Bent  almost  double, 

Deaf  as  a  witch, 
Gout  her  chief  trouble  — 

'Just  as  if  rich  ; 
Vain  of  her  ancestry, 

Mouth  all  agrin, 
Nose  half-way  meeting  her 

Sky-pointed  chin. 

Ducking  her  forehead-top, 

Wrinkled  and  bare, 
With  a  colonial 

Furbelowed  air 
Greeting  her  next  of  kin, 

Nephew  or  niece, — 
Foolish  old,  prating  old 

Cousin  Lucrece. 

Once  every  year  she  had 

All  she  could  eat : 
Turkey  and  cranberries, 

Pudding  and  sweet ; 
128 


COUSIN   LUCRECE 

Every  Thanksgiving, 

Up  to  the  great 
House  of  her  kinsman,  was 

Driven  in  state. 

Oh,  what  a  sight  to  see, 

Rigged  in  her  best ! 
Wearing;  the  famous  gown 

O  D 

Drawn  from  her  chest,— 
Worn,  ere  King  George's  reign 

Here  chanced  to  cease, 
Once  by  a  forbear 

Of  Cousin  Lucrece. 

Damask  brocaded, 

Cut  very  low ; 
Short  sleeves  and  finger-mitts 

Fit  for  a  show ; 
Palsied  neck  shaking  her 

Rust-yellow  curls, 
Rattling  its  roundabout 

String  of  mock  pearls  ; 

Over  her  noddle, 

Draggled  and  stark, 
Two  ostrich  feathers  — 

Brought  from  the  ark. 
Shoes  of  frayed  satin, 

All  heel  and  toe, 
On  her  poor  crippled  feet 

Hobbled  below. 

My  !  how  the  Justice's 

Sons  and  their  wives 
Laughed  ;  while  the  little  folk 

Ran  for  their  lives, 
129 


POEMS    OF   NEW    ENGLAND 

Asking  if  beldames 

Out  of  the  past, 
Old  fairy  godmothers, 

Always  could  last  ? 

No !   One  Thanksgiving, 

Bitterly  cold, 
After  they  took  her  home 

(Ever  so  old), 
In  her  great  chair  she  sank, 

There  to  find  peace ; 
Died  in  her  ancient  dress  — 

Poor  old  Lucrece. 
1892. 


HUNTINGTON    HOUSE 

LADIES,  Ladies  Huntington,  your  father  served,  we  know, 
As  aide-de-camp  to  Washington  —  you  often  told  us  so; 
And  when  you  sat  you  side  by  side  in  that  ancestral  pew, 
We  knew  his  ghost  sat  next  the  door,  and  very  proud  of 
you. 

Ladies,  Ladies  Huntington,  like  you  there  are  no  more : 
Nancy,  Sarah,  Emily,  Louise,  —  proud  maidens  four; 
Nancy  tall  and  angular,  Louise  a  rosy  dear, 
And  Emily  as  fine  as  lace  but  just  a  little  sere. 

What  was  it,  pray,  your  life  within  the  mansion  grand  and 

old, 
Four  dormers  in  its  gambrel-roof,  their  shingles  grim  with 

mould  ? 
How  dwelt  you  in  your  spinsterhood,  ye  ancient  virgins 

lone, 

From  infancy  to  bag-and-muff  so  resolutely  grown  ? 

130 


HUNTINGTON    HOUSE 

Each  Sunday  morning  out  you  drove  to    Parson   Arms's 

church, 
As   straight  as  if  Time  had  not  left  you  somehow  in  the 

lurch ; 
And  so  lived  where  your  grandfather  and   father  lived  and 

died, 
Until  you  sought  them  one  by  one  —  and  last  of  all  stayed 

pride. 

You  knew  that  with  them  you  would  lie  in  that  old  burial 

ground 
Wherethrough  the  name  of  Huntington  on  vault  and  stone 

is  found, 
Where  Norwichtown's  first  infant  male,  in  sixteen-sixty 

born, 
Grave  Christopher,  still  rests  beneath  his  cherub  carved 

forlorn. 

There  sleep  your  warlike  ancestors,  their  feet  toward  the 

east, 
And  thus  shall  face  the  Judgment  Throne  when  Gabriel's 

blast  hath  ceased. 
The  frost  of  years  may  heave  the  tomb  whereto  you  were 

consigned, 
And  school-boys  peer  atween  the  cracks,  but   you will 

never  mind. 
1894. 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 


ROUND   THE   OLD    BOARD 

VlGINTENNIAL  DlNNER,    CLASS  OF    1853 
Air —  "  Cheer,  Boys,  Cheer  !  " 

ROUND  the  old  board  once  more  we  feast  together ! 

Thrice  and  again  our  hearts  have  drawn  us  here ; 
Long  have  we  sailed,  in  fair  and  stormy  weather ; 

Here  we  are  in  port,  though  we  've  voyaged  many  a  year. 
Each  a  tale  can  tell  —  like  him  of  Homer's  story, 

Patient  Ulysses  upon  the  sounding  main ; 
Some  have  gathered  gold,  and  some  have  gotten  glory : 

Round  the  old  board  we  sit  and  feast  again  ! 

CHORUS  : 

Yale,  old  Tale  !  the  same  old  elms  above  us  ! 

Comrades,  are  ye  here,  the  mates  that  never  fail? 
Some  have  sought  the  skies,  we  know  their  spirits  love  us ; 

Some  in  far-off  places  are  thinking  of  old  Tale. 

Twenty  years  syne !  the  shadow  eastward  passes ; 

Faster,  every  one,  the  seasons  take  their  flight ; 
Though  our  time  has  come  to  sing  Eheu!  fugaces, 

Round  the  old  board  we  '11  not  be  sad  to-night ! 
Twenty  years  syne,  —  when  we  were  spruce  and  slender,  — 

Larger  now  our  waistbands,  alack  and  well-a-day  ! 
Still  in  our  hearts  there 's  something  true  and  tender ; 

Boys  we  are  to-night,  though  our  heads  are  turning  gray. 

CHORUS  :  Tale,  old  Tale,  etc. 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Round  the  old  board,  with  talk  and  song  and  laughter, 

Each  unto  each  shall  gossip  of  his  lot ; 
Here  at  Life's  noon  we  look  before  and  after ; 

Glad  let  us  be,  then,  nor  sigh  for  what  is  not. 
Peace  to  the  Dead  !  the  spoiler  has  bereft  us ; 

Dear  are  their  names  when  the  red  wine  is  poured ! 
Drain  we  the  cup  to  every  comrade  left  us, 

Near  ones  and  far  ones,  round  the  old  board. 

CHORUS  : 

Tale ,  old  Tale  !  the  same  old  elms  above  us  ! 

Comrades,  are  ye  here,  the  mates  that  never  fail? 
Some  have  sought  the  skies,  we  know  their  spirits  love  us ; 

Some  in  far-off  places  are  thinking  of  old  Tale. 


MERIDIAN 

AN    OLD-FASHIONED    POEM 

THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  YALE  CLASS  OF  1853 

Inque  brevi  spatio  mutantur  saecla  animantum 
Et  quasi  cursores  vital  lampada  tradunt. 

LUCRETIUS,  De  Rer.  Nat.  Lib.  ii. 


THE  tryst  is  kept.   How  fares  it  with  each  one 

At  this  mid  hour,  when  mariners  take  the  sun 

And  cast  their  reckoning  ?  when  some  level  height 

Is  reached  by  men  who  set  their  strength  aright, — 

Who  for  a  little  space  the  firm  plateau 

Tread  sure  and  steadfast,  yet  who  needs  must  know 

Full  soon  begins  the  inevitable  slide 

Down  westward  slopings  of  the  steep  divide. 

How  stands  it,  comrades,  at  this  noontide  fleet, 

When  for  an  hour  we  gather  to  the  meet  ? 


MERIDIAN 

Like  huntsmen,  rallied  by  the  winding  horn, 
Who  seek  the  shade  with  trophies  lightly  borne, 
Remembering  their  deeds  of  derring-do  — 
What  bows  were  bent,  what  arrows  speeded  true. 
All,  all  have  striven,  and  far  apart  have  strayed  : 
Fling  down  !  fill  up  the  can  !  wipe  off  the  blade  ! 
Ring  out  the  song !  nor  care,  in  this  our  mood, 
What  hollow  echo  mocks  us  from  the  wood  ! 

Or  is  it  with  us,  haply,  as  with  those 

Each  man  of  whom  the  morn's  long  combat  knows  ? 

All  veterans  now :  the  bugle's  far  recall 

From  the  hot  strife  has  sounded  sweet  to  all. 

Welcome  the  rendezvous  beneath  the  elms, 

The  truce,  the  throwing  down  of  swords  and  helms ! 

Life  is  a  battle  !  How  these  sayings  trite 

Which  school-boys  write  —  and  know  not  what  they  write  • 

In  after  years  begin  to  burn  and  glow  ! 

What  man  is  here  that  has  not  found  it  so  ? 

Who  here  is  not  a  soldier  of  the  wars, 

Has  not  his  half-healed  wound,  his  early  scars, — 

Has  broken  not  his  sword,  or  from  the  field 

Borne  often  naught  but  honor  and  his  shield  ? 

Ah,  ye  recruits,  with  flags  and  arms  unstained, 

See  by  what  toil  and  moil  the  heights  are  gained ! 

Learn  of  our  skirmish  lost,  our  ridges  won, 

The  dust,  the  thirst  beneath  the  scorching  sun ; 

Then  see  us  closer  draw  —  by  fate  bereft 

Of  men  we  loved  —  the  firm-set  column  left. 


ii 

To  me  the  picture  that  some  painter  drew 
Makes  answer  for  our  past.   His  throng  pursue 
A  siren,  one  that  ever  smiles  before, 
Almost  in  reach,  alluring  more  and  more. 

137 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Old,  young,  with  outstretched  hand,  with  eager  eye, 

Fast  follow  where  her  winged  sandals  fly, 

While  by  some  witchery  unto  each  she  seems 

His  dearest  hope,  the  spirit  of  his  dreams. 

Ah,  me  !  how  like  those  dupes  of  Pleasure's  chase, 

Yet  how  unlike,  we  left  our  starting-place  ! 

Is  there  not  something  nobler,  far  more  true, 

In  the  Ideal,  still  before  our  view, 

Upon  whose  shining  course  we  followed  far 

While  sank  and  rose  the  night  and  morning  star  ? 

Ever  we  saw  a  bright  glance  cast  behind 

Or  heard  a  word  of  hope  borne  down  the  wind, — 

As  yet  we  see  and  hear,  and  follow  still 

With  faithful  hearts  and  long-enduring  will. 

In  what  weird  circle  has  the  enchantress  led 
Our  footsteps,  so  that  now  again  they  tread 
These  walks,  and  all  that  on  the  course  befell 
Seems  to  ourselves  a  shadow  and  a  spell  ? 
Was  it  the  magic  of  a  moment's  trance, 
A  scholar's  day-dream  ?   Have  we  been,  perchance, 
Like  that  bewildered  king  who  dipped  his  face 
In  water  —  while  a  dervish  paused  to  trace 
A  mystic  phrase  —  and,  ere  he  raised  it,  lived 
A  score  of  seasons,  labored,  journeyed,  wived 
In  a  strange  city, —  Tunis  or  Algiers,— 
And,  after  what  had  seemed  so  many  years, 
Came  to  himself,  and  found  all  this  had  been 
During  the  palace-clock's  brief  noonday  din  ? 

For  here  the  same  blithe  robins  seem  to  house 
In  the  elm-forest,  underneath  whose  boughs 
We  too  were  sheltered ;  nay,  we  cannot  mark 
The  five-and-twenty  rings,  beneath  the  bark, 
That  tell  the  growth  of  some  historic  tree, 
Since  we,  too,  were  a  part  of  Arcady. 
And  in  our  trance,  negari,  should  the  bell 

138 


MERIDIAN 

Speak  out  the  hour,  non  potest  quin,  't  were  well 

The  upper  or  the  lower  room  to  seek 

For  Tully's  Latin,  Homer's  rhythmic  Greek  j  — 

Yet  were  it  well  ?  ay,  brothers,  if,  alack, 

For  this  one  day  the  shadow  might  go  back  ! 

Ah,  no  !  with  doubtful  faces  each  on  each 
We  look,  we  speak  with  altered,  graver  speech: 
The  spell  is  gone  !   We  know  what  \  is  to  wake 
From  an  illusive  dream,  at  morning's  break, 
That  we  again  are  dark-haired,  buoyant,  young,  — 
Scanning,  once  more,  our  spring-time  mates  among, 
The  grand  hexameter  —  that  anthem  free 
Of  the  pursuing,  loud-resounding  sea, — 
To  wake,  anon,  and  know  another  day 
Already  speeds  for  one  whose  hairs  are  gray, — 
In  this  swift  change  to  lose  a  third  of  life 
Lopped  by  the  stroke  of  Memory's  ruthless  knife, 
And  feel,  though  naught  go  ill,  it  is  a  pain 
That  youth,  lost  youth,  can  never  come  again ! 

Were  the  dream  real,  or  should  we  idly  go 
To  yonder  halls  and  strive  to  make  it  so, 
There  listening  to  the  voices  that  rehearse, 
Like  ours  of  old,  the  swift  Ionic  verse, 
What  silvery  speech  could  now  for  us  restore 
The  cadence  that  we  thought  to  hear  once  more? 
The  low,  calm  utterance  of  him  who  first 
Our  faltering  minds  to  clearer  knowledge  nursed, — 
The  perfect  teacher,  who  endured  our  raw 
Harsh  bleatings  with  a  pang  we  never  saw ; 
Whose  bearing  was  so  apt  we  scarcely  knew, 
At  first,  the  wit  that  lit  him  through  and  through, 
Strength's  surplusage ;  nor,  after  many  a  day 
Had  taught  us,  rated  well  the  heart  that  lay 
Beneath  his  speech,  nor  guessed  how  brave  a  soul 
In  that  frail  body  dwelt  with  fine  control : 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Alas,  no  longer  dwells  !   Time's  largest  theft 
Was  that  which  learning  and  the  world  bereft 
Of  this  pure  scholar,  —  one  who  had  been  great 
In  every  walk  where  led  by  choice  or  fate, 
Were  not  his  delicate  yearnings  still  represt 
Obeying  duty's  every-day  behest. 
He  shrank  from  note,  yet  might  have  worn  at  ease 
The  garb  whose  counterfeit  a  sad  world  sees 
Round  many  a  dolt  who  gains,  and  deems  it  fame, 
One  tenth  the  honor  due  to  HADLEY'S  name. 

Too  soon  the  years,  gray  Time's  relentless  breed, 

Have  claimed  our  Pascal.   He  is  theirs  indeed ; 

Yet  three  remain  of  the  ancestral  mould, 

Abreast,  like  them  who  kept  the  bridge  of  old : 

The  true,  large-hearted  man  so  many  found 

A  helpful  guardian,  stalwart,  sane,  and  sound ; 

And  he,  by  sure  selection  upward  led, 

Whom  now  we  reverence  as  becomes  the  Head, — 

The  sweet  polemic,  pointing  shafts  divine 

With  kindly  satire,  —  latest  of  the  line 

That  dates  from  godly  Pierson.  No  less  dear, 

And  more  revered  with  each  unruffled  year, 

That  other  Grecian  :  he  who  stands  aside 

Watching  the  streams  that  gather  and  divide. 

Alcestis'  love,  the  Titan's  deathless  will, 

We  read  of  in  his  text,  and  drank  our  fill 

At  Plato's  spring.  Now,  from  his  sacred  shade, 

Still  on  the  outer  world  his  hand  is  laid 

In  use  and  counsel.   Whom  the  nation  saw 

Most  fit  for  Heaven  could  best  expound  Earth's  law, 

His  wise,  kind  eyes  behold  —  nor  are  they  loth  — 
The  larger  scope,  the  quarter-century's  growth : 
How  blooms  the  Mother  with  unwrinkled  brow, 
To  whom  her  wandering  sons,  returning  now, 
Come  not  alone,  but  bring  their  sons  to  prove 
140 


MERIDIAN 

That  children's  children  have  a  share  of  love. 
Through  them  she  proffers  us  a  second  chance ; 
With  their  young  eyes  we  see  her  hands  advance 
To  crown  the  sports  once  banished  from  her  sight ; 
With  them  we  see  old  wrong  become  the  right, 
Tread  pleasant  halls,  a  healthy  life  behold 
Less  stinted  than  the  cloister-range  of  old  — 
When  the  last  hour  of  morning  sleep  was  lost 
And  prayer  was  sanctified  by  dusk  and  frost, 
And  hungry  tutors  taught  a  class  unfed 
That  a  full  stomach  meant  an  empty  head. 
For  them  a  tenth  Muse,  Beauty,  here  and  there 
Has  touched  the  landmarks,  making  all  more  fair;  — 
We  knew  her  not,  save  in  our  stolen  dreams 
Or  stumbling  song,  but  now  her  likeness  gleams 
Through  chapel  aisles,  and  in  the  house  where  Art 
Has  builded  for  her  praise  its  shrines  apart. 

Now  the  new  Knowledge,  risen  like  a  sun, 
Makes  bright  for  them  the  hidden  ways  that  none 
Revealed  to  us ;  or  haply  would  dethrone 
The  gods  of  old,  and  rule  these  hearts  alone 
From  yonder  stronghold.   By  unnumbered  strings 
She  draws  our  sons  to  her  discoverings, — - 
Traces  the  secret  paths  of  force,  the  heat 
That  makes  the  stout  heart  give  its  patient  beat, 
Follows  the  stars  through  aeons  far  and  free, 
And  shows  what  forms  have  been  and  are  to  be. 

Such  things  are  plain  to  these  we  hither  brought, 

More  strange  and  varied  than  ourselves  were  taught ; 

But  has  the  iris  of  the  murmuring  shell 

A  charm  the  less  because  we  know  full  well 

Sweet  Nature's  trick  ?   Is  Music's  dying  fall 

Less  finely  blent  with  strains  antiphonal 

Because  within  a  harp's  quick  vibratings 

We  count  the  tremor  of  the  spirit's  wings  ? 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

There  is  a  path  by  Science  yet  untrod 

Where  with  closed  eyes  we  walk  to  find  out  God ! 

Still,  still,  the  unattained  ideal  lures, 

The  spell  evades,  the  splendor  yet  endures ; 

False  sang  the  poet,  —  there  is  no  good  in  rest, 

And  Truth  still  leads  us  to  a  deeper  quest. 

in 

But  Alma  Mater,  with  her  mother-eyes 

Seeing  us  graver  grown  if  not  more  wise,  — 

She  calls  us  back,  dear  comrades  — ah,  how  dear, 

And  dearer  than  when  each  to  each  was  near  ! 

Time  thickens  blood  !  Enough  to  know  that  one 

Our  classmate  was  and  is,  and  is  her  son ;  — 

She  looks  unto  the  East,  the  South,  the  West, 

Asking,  "  Now  who  have  kept  my  maxims  best  ? 

Who  have  most  nearly  held  within  their  grasp 

The  fluttering  robe  that  each  essayed  to  clasp  ?  " 

Can  ye  not  answer,  brothers,  even  as  I, 

That  still  in  front  the  vision  seems  to  fly,  — 

More  light  and  fleet  her  shining  footsteps  burn, 

And  speed  the  most  when  most  she  seems  to  turn  ? 

And  some  have  fallen,  fallen  from  our  band 

Just  as  we  thought  to  see  them  lay  the  hand 

Upon  her  scarf:  we  know  their  precious  names, 

Their  hearts,  their  work,  their  sorrows,  and  their  fames. 

Few  gifts  the  brief  years  brought  them,  yet  how  few 

Fell  to  the  living  as  the  lots  we  drew ! 

But  some,  who  most  were  baffled,  later  found 

Capricious  Fortune's  arms  a  moment  wound 

About  them  ;  some,  who  sought  her  on  one  side, 

Beheld  her  reach  them  by  a  compass  wide. 

What  then  is  Life  ?  or  what  Success  may  be 

Who,  who  can  tell  ?  who  for  another  see  ? 

From  those,  perchance,  that  closest  seem  to  hold 

Her  love,  her  strength,  her  laurels,  or  her  gold, 

142 


MERIDIAN 

In  this  meridian  hour  she  far  has  sped 

And  left  them  but  her  phantom  mask  instead. 

A  grave,  sweet  poet  in  a  song  has  told 

Of  one,  a  king,  who  in  his  palace  old 

Hung  up  a  bell ;  and  placed  its  cord  anear 

His  couch,  —  that  thenceforth,  when  the  court  should  hear 

Its  music,  all  might  know  the  king  had  rung 

With  his  own  hand,  and  that  its  silver  tongue 

Gave  out  the  words  of  joy  he  wished  to  say, 

u  I  have  been  wholly  happy  on  this  day  !  " 

Joy's  full  perfection  never  to  him  came ; 

Voiceless  the  bell,  year  after  year  the  same, 

Till,  in  his  death-throes,  round  the  cord  his  hand 

Gathered  —  and  there  was  mourning  in  the  land. 

I  pray  you,  search  the  wistful  past,  and  tell 

Which  of  you  all  could  ring  the  happy  bell ! 

The  treasure-trove,  the  gifts  we  ask  of  Fate, 

Come  far  apart,  come  mildewed,  come  too  late. 

What  says  the  legend  ?    "  All  that  man  desires 

Greatly  at  morn  he  gains  ere  day  expires ;  " 

But  Age  craves  not  the  fruits  that  gladden  Youth, — 

It  sits  among  its  vineyards,  full  of  ruth, 

Finding  the  owner's  right  to  what  is  best 

Of  little  worth  without  the  seeker's  zest. 

Yet  something  has  been  gained.  Not  all  a  waste 
The  light-winged  years  have  vanished  in  their  haste, 
Howbeit  their  gift  was  scant  of  what  we  thought, 
So  much  we  thought  not  of  they  slowly  wrought ! 
Not  all  a  waste  the  insight  and  the  zeal 
We  gathered  here :  these  surely  make  for  weal ; 
The  current  sets  for  him  who  swims  upbuoyed 
By  the  trained  skill,  with  all  his  arts  employed. 


POEMS   OF  OCCASION 

Coy  Fortune  may  disdain  our  noblest  cares, 
The  good  she  gives  at  last  comes  unawares  :  — 
Long,  long  in  vain,  —  with  patience,  worth,  and  love, 
To  do  her  task  the  enchanted  princess  strove, 
Till  in  the  midnight  pitying  fairies  crept 
Unravelling  the  tangle  while  she  slept. 

This,  then,  the  boon  our  Age  of  Wisdom  brings,  — 
A  knowledge  of  the  real  worth  of  things  : 
How  poor,  how  good,  is  wealth  •,  how  surely  fame 
And  beauty  must  return  to  whence  they  came, 
Yet  not  for  this  less  beautiful  and  rare  — 
It  is  their  evanescence  makes  them  fair 
And  worth  possession.   Ours  the  age  still  strong 
With  passions,  that  demand  not  curb  nor  thong ; 
And  ours  the  age  not  old  enough  to  set 
Youth's  joys  above  their  proper  worth,  nor  yet 
So  young  as  still  to  trust  its  empery  more 
Than  unseen  hands  which  lead  to  fortune's  door. 
For  most  have  done  the  best  they  could,  and  all 
The  reign  of  law  has  compassed  like  a  wall ; 
Something  accrued  to  each,  and  each  has  seen 
A  Power  that  works  for  good  in  life's  demesne. 
In  our  own  time,  to  many  a  masquerade 
The  hour  has  come  when  masks  aside  were  laid  : 
We  've  seen  the  shams  die  out,  the  poor  pretense 
Cut  off  at  last  by  truth's  keen  instruments, 
The  ignoble  fashion  wane  and  pass  away,— 
The  fine  return  a  second  time,  to  stay,  — 
The  knave,  the  quack,  and  all  the  meaner  brood, 
Go  surely  down,  by  the  strong  years  subdued, 
And,  in  the  quarter-century's  capping-race, 
Strength,  talent,  honor,  take  and  hold  their  place. 
More  glad,  you  say,  the  song  I  might  have  sung 
In  the  free,  careless  days  when  all  were  young ! 
Now,  long  deferred,  the  sullen  stroke  of  time 
Has  given  a  graver  key,  a  deeper  chime, 
144 


YALE   ODE   FOR   COMMENCEMENT   DAY 

That  the  late  singer  of  this  strain  might  prove 
Himself  less  keen  for  honors,  more  for  love, 
And  in  the  music  of  your  answer  find 
The  charms  that  life  to  further  action  bind. 
The  Past  is  past;  survey  its  course  no  more; 
Henceforth  our  glasses  sweep  the  further  shore. 
Five  lustra,  briefer  than  those  gone,  remain, 
And  then  —  a  white-haired  few  shall  meet  again, 
Lifting  their  heads  that  long  have  learned  to  droop, 
And  hear  some  sweeter  minstrel  of  our  group. 
But  stay  !  which  one  of  us,  alone,  shall  dine 
At  the  Last  Shadowy  Banquet  of  the  line  ? 
Who  knows  ?  who  does  not  in  his  heart  reply, 
"  It  matters  not,  so  that  it  be  not  I." 


YALE    ODE    FOR   COMMENCEMENT 
DAY 


HARK  !  through  the  archways  old 

High  voices  manifold 
Sing  praise  to  our  fair  Mother,  praise  to  Yale  ! 

The  Muses'  rustling  garments  trail ; 
White  arms,  with  myrtle  and  with  laurel  wound, 

Bring  crowns  to  her,  the  Crowned ! 
Youngest  and  blithest,  and  awaited  long, 
The  heavenly  maid,  sweet  Music's  child  divine, 
With  golden  lyre  and  joy  of  choric  song 

Leads  all  the  Sisters  Nine. 

ii 

In  the  gray  of  a  people's  morn, 
In  the  faith  of  the  years  to  be, 

The  sacred  Mother  was  born 
On  the  shore  of  the  fruitful  sea ; 
H5 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

By  the  shore  she  grew,  and  the  ancient  winds  of  the  East 
Made  her  brave  and  strong,  and  her  beauteous  youth  in 
creased 

Till  the  winds  of  the  West,  from  a  wondrous  land, 
From  the  strand  of  the  setting  sun  to  the  sea  of  her  sunrise 

strand, 
From  fanes  which  her  own  dear  hand  hath  planted  in  grove 

and  mead  and  vale, 

Breathe  love  from  her  countless  sons  of  might  to  the  Mother 
—  breathe  praise  to  Yale. 

in 

Mother  of  Learning  !  thou  whose  torch 
Starward  uplifts,  afar  its  light  to  bear, — 
Thine  own  revere  thee  throned  within  thy  porch, 

Rayed  with  thy  shining  hair. 
The  youngest  know  thee  still  more  young,  — 
The  stateliest,  statelier  yet  than  prophet-bard  hath  sung. 
O  mighty  Mother,  proudly  set 

Beside  the  far-inreaching  sea, 
None  shall  the  trophied  Past  forget 
Or  doubt  thy  splendor  yet  to  be ! 
1895. 


MATER   CORONATA 

RECITED  AT  THE  BICENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  YALE  UNIVER 
SITY,  OCTOBER  23,  1901 


ALL  things  on  Earth  that  are  accounted  great 
Are  dedicate  to  conflict  at  first  breath ; 
Nature  herself  knows  grandly  to  await 
The  masterful  estate 

Which  from  her  secret  germ  Time  conjureth. 
146 


MATER   CORONATA 

ii 

The  elements  that  buffet  man  decree 

His  lustihood  prevailing  to  the  end ; 

The  free  air  foreordains  him  to  be  free ;  — 

Their  stern  persistency 

The  ages  to  his  resolute  spirit  lend. 

in 

So  rose  our  Academe  since  that  far  day 

When  reverently  the  grave  forefathers  came, 

In  council  by  the  shoal  ancestral  bay, 

To  speak  the  word,  —  to  pray,  — 

To  found  the  enduring  shrine  without  a  name. 

IV 

Ye,  at  the  witchery  of  whose  golden  wand 
New  cloisters  rise  to  splendor  in  a  night,  — 
Find  here  your  model !      Here  the  barriers  stand 
That  were  not  made  to  hand, 
That  have  the  puissance  Time  confers  aright. 


Born  with  the  exit  of  that  iron  age 

When  Nova  Anglia  to  New-England  grew, 

Learning's  new  child  put  up  a  hermitage, 

Whereof  no  godly  mage 

As  from  a  mount  the  boundaries  foreknew; 

VI 

No  oracle  betokened  the  obscure 

Grim  years  encountering  which  the  elders  bowed, 

Yet  knew  not  faintness  nor  discomfiture, 

But  set  the  buttress  sure 

That  should  upstay  these  tabernacles  proud; 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

VII 

These  fanes,  that  bred  their  patriot  to  vie 
In  steadfastness,  erect  of  thought  to  live, 
Or,  when  the  country  bade,  undauntedly 
Without  lament  to  die 
Save  that  he  had  but  one  young  life  to  give. 

VIII 

Twice,  thrice,  and  yet  again,  that  sovereign  call 
Rang  not  in  vain  ;  nor  from  this  ancient  grove 
Hath  ceased  to  broaden,  as  the  days  befall, 
The  famed  processional 
Of  the  mind's  workmen  who  to  greatness  move. 

IX 

No  feebling  she  that  reared  them,  no  forlorn 
And  wrinkled  mother  lingering  in  the  gray  ; 
Fadeless  she  smiles  to  see  her  shield  upborne : 
It  is  her  morn,  her  morn  ! 
The  past,  but  twilight  ushering  in  her  day. 


Strong  Mother !  thou  who  from  the  doorways  old, 

Or  housed  anew  in  beauty  renovate, 

Hast  spread  thine  heritage  a  hundred-fold,  — 

Hast  wrought  us  to  thy  mould 

Whether  the  bread  of  ease  or  toil  we  ate ; 


XI 

Thou  who  hast  made  thy  sons  coequal  all, 
The  least  one  of  thy  progeny  a  peer 
Wearing  for  worth  not  birth  his  coronal,  — 
The  watchmen  on  thy  wall 
Wax  proud  this  sundawn  of  thy  cyclic  year ! 

148 


MATER   CORONATA 

XII 

The  lustres  of  a  new-won  firmament, 

Spanned  from  the  height  thine  upmost  turrets  crown, 

Relume  the  course  whereon  thy  thoughts  are  bent,  — 

Whereto  the  words  are  sent 

That  bid  thy  children  pass  the  lineage  down. 

XIII 

Ere  yet  that  rainbowed  dome  thou  seest  complete, 

Mankind,  be  sure,  shall  Earth  more  nobly  share ; 

No  churl  his  measure  shall  unduly  mete ; 

And  where  are  set  thy  feet 

Life  shall  be  counted  lordlier  and  more  fair. 

XIV 

Science  shall  yield  new  spells  for  man  to  know, 

And  bid  thee  consecrate  to  mortal  weal 

All  that  her  henchmen  in  thy  gates  bestow; 

Nor  lofty  then,  nor  low, 

Save  to  his  race  each  ministrant  is  leal. 

xv 

Thine  be  it  still  the  undying  antique  speech, 
The  grove's  high  thought,  the  wing'd  Hellenic  lyre, 

Unvexed  of  soul  thy  acolytes  to  teach, 

So  shall  they  also  reach 

Their  lamps,  and  light  them  at  a  quenchless  fire ; 

XVI 

And  wield  the  trebly-welded  English  tongue, 
Their  vantage  by  inheritance  divine, 
Invincible  the  laurelled  lists  among 
Wherein  the  bards  have  sung 
Or  sages  deathless  made  the  lettered  line; 

149 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

XVII 

Till  now,  for  that  sure  Pentecost  to  come, 
The  globe's  four  winds  are  winnowing  apace 
Fresh  harvestings  of  speech,  in  one  to  sum 
A  world's  curriculum 
When  East  and  West  forgather  face  to  face. 

XVIII 

Thus  first  imbued,  thy  coming  host  the  clues 
To  broad  achievement  shall  descry  the  more ; 
What  thou  hast  taught  them  shall  in  statecraft  use 
Greatly ;  nor  can  they  choose 
But  follow  where  the  omens  blaze  before ! 

XIX 

Even  as  our  Platonist's  exultant  soul 

That  westward  course  of  empire  visioned  far, 

Now  round  the  sheen,  to  Asia  and  the  Pole, 

Time  charts  upon  our  scroll 

The  empearled  pathways  of  an  orient  star. 

xx 

There  the  swart  Malay's  juster  league  begun 
Takes  from  our  hands  the  tables  of  the  law ; 
The  mild  Hawaiian  raises  to  the  sun 
The  folds  himself  had  won 
Ere  the  Antilles  their  deliverance  saw. 

XXI 

Time's  drama  speeds :  albeit,  alas  !  its  chief 

Protagonist,  augmenter  of  the  State, 

Fell  as  the  Prompter  turned  that  unread  leaf,  — 

And  oh,  what  tragic  grief 

Just  when  consummate  towered  the  action  great ' 


150 


MATER   CORONATA 


XXII 


To  strong  brave  hands  the  rule,  the  large  intent, 
Have  passed.  Nor  tears  alone  that  some  far  plan 
Required  the  master's  life-blood  interblent  — 
To  point  his  monument 
And  leave  once  more  the  likeness  of  a  man. 

XXIII 

But  we,  Yale's  living  multitude  rebrought 
From  farthest  outposts  of  the  pine  and  palm, — 
We  know  her  battlements  of  iron  wrought, 
Her  captains  fearing  naught, 
Her  voice  of  welcome  rising  like  a  psalm. 

XXIV 

We  know  the  still  indissoluble  chain 

Wherewith  the  sons  are  to  the  Mother  bound ; 

Nor  unto  any  shall  she  call  in  vain 

Who  in  her  heart  have  lain 

And  trod  the  memoried  precinct  of  her  ground. 

xxv 

God  dower  her  endowering  her  brood 

With  knowledge,  beauty,  valor,  from  her  breast,  — 

Ingathering  from  the  peopled  town,  the  wood, 

The  island  solitude, 

The  land's  most  loyal  and  its  manfullest ! 

XXVI 

God  keep  her !  Yea,  that  Soul  her  soul  endure,  — 

That  Spirit  of  the  interstellar  void, 

That  mightier  Presence  than  the  fathers  knew, — 

The  source  of  light  wherethrough 

Heaven's  planets  shine  in  joy  and  strength  deployed. 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 


XXVII 


That  Power,  —  even  that  which  doth  impart  a  share 

And  semblance  of  divinity  to  our  kind, — 

Hold  thee,  dear  Mother,  here  and  everywhere, — 

Thee  and  thy  sons,  —  in  care, 

Through  centuries  yet  still  loftier  use  to  find ! 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 
I 

PRELUDE 

A  WIND  and  a  voice  from  the  North ! 
A  courier-wind  sent  forth 
From  the  mountains  to  the  sea : 
A  summons  borne  to  me 

From  halls  which  the  Muses  haunt,  from  hills  where  the 
heart  and  the  wind  are  free  ! 

u  Come  from  the  outer  throng  !  " 
(Such  was  the  burden  it  bore,) 
u  Thou  who  hast  gone  before, 
Hither !  and  sing  us  a  song, 

Far  from  the  round  of  the  town  and  the  sound  of  the  great 
world's  roar !  " 

O  masterful  voice  of  Youth, 

That  will  have,  like  the  upland  wind,  its  own  wild  way  J 
O  choral  words,  that  with  every  season  rise 
Like  the  warblings  of  orchard-birds  at  break  of  day  ! 
O  faces,  fresh  with  the  light  of  morning  skies  ! 
No  marvel  world-worn  toilers  seek  you  here, 
Even  as  they  life  renew,  from  year  to  year, 
In  woods  and  meadows  lit  with  blossoming  May ; 
But  O,  blithe  voices,  that  have  such  sweet  power, 
152 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 

Unto  your  high  behest  this  summer  hour 
What  answer  has  the  poet  ?  how  shall  he  frame  his  lay  ? 

II 

THEME 

"  WHAT  shall  my  song  rehearse  ?  "  I  said 
To  a  wise  bard,  whose  hoary  head 
Is  bowed,  like  Kearsarge  crouching  low 
Beneath  a  winter  weight  of  snow, 
But  whose  songs  of  passion,  joy,  or  scorn, 
Within  a  fiery  heart  are  born. 

"  What  can  I  spread,  what  proper  feast 
For  these  young  Magi  of  the  East  ? 
What  wisdom  find,  what  mystic  lore, 
What  chant  they  have  not  heard  before  ? 
Strange  words  of  old  has  every  tongue 
Those  happy  cloistered  hills  among; 
For  each  riddle  I  divine 
They  can  answer  me  with  nine ; 
Their  footsteps  by  the  Muse  are  led, 
Their  lips  on  Plato's  honey  fed ; 
Their  eyes  have  skill  to  read  the  page 
Of  Theban  bard  or  Attic  sage  ; 
For  them  all  Nature's  mysteries,— 
The  deep-down  secrets  of  the  seas, 
The  cyclone's  whirl,  the  lightning's  shock, 
The  language  of  the  riven  rock  ; 
They  know  the  starry  sisters  seven, — 
What  clouds  the  molten  suns  enfold, 
And  all  the  golden  woof  of  heaven 
Unravelled  in  their  lens  behold  ! 
Gazing  in  a  thousand  eyes, 
So  rapt  and  clear,  so  wonder-wise, 
What  shall  my  language  picture,  then, 
Beyond  their  wont  —  that  has  not  reached  their  ken  ? 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

"  What  else  are  poets  used  to  sing, 
Who  sing  of  youth,  than  laurelled  fame  and  love  ? 

But  ah  !   it  needs  no  words  to  move 

Young  hearts  to  some  impassioned  vow, 

To  whom  already  on  the  wing 

The  blind  god  hastens.    Even  now 

Their  pulses  quiver  with  a  thrill 

Than  all  that  wisdom  wiser  still. 
Nor  any  need  to  tell  of  rustling  bays, 
Of  honor  ever  at  the  victor's  hand, 

To  them  who  at  the  portals  stand 
Like  mettled  steeds,  —  each  eager  from  control 
To  leap,  and,  where  the  corso  lies  ablaze, 
Let  out  his  speed  and  soonest  pass  the  goal. 

"  What  is  there  left  ?  what  shall  my  verse 

Within  those  ancient  halls  rehearse  ?  " 
Deep  in  his  heart  my  plaint  the  minstrel  weighed, 

And  a  subtle  answer  made  : 
u  The  world  that  is,  the  ways  of  men, 

Not  yet  are  glassed  within  their  ken. 

Their  foster-mother  holds  them  long,  — 
Long,  long  to  youth,  —  short,  short  to  age,  appear 

The  rounds  of  her  Olympic  Year, — 
Their  ears  are  quickened  for  the  trumpet-call. 
Sing  to  them  one  true  song, 

Ere  from  the  Happy  Vale  they  turn, 
Of  all  the  Abyssinian  craved  to  learn, 
And  dared  his  fate,  and  scaled  the  mountain-wall 
To  join  the  ranks  without,  and  meet  what  might  befall." 


Ill 

VESTIGIA   RETRORSUM 

GONE  the  Arcadian  age, 
When,  from  his  hillside  hermitage 
154 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 

Sent  forth,  the  gentle  scholar  strode 

At  ease  upon  a  royal  road, 
And  found  the  outer  regions  all  they  seem 
In  Youth's  prophetic  dream. 

The  graduate  took  his  station  then 

By  right,  a  ruler  among  men: 

Courtly  the  three  estates,  and  sure ; 

The  bar,  the  bench,  the  pulpit,  pure  ; 

No  cosmic  doubts  arose,  to  vex 

The  preacher's  heart,  his  faith  perplex. 

Content  in  ancient  paths  he  trod, 

Nor  searched  beyond  his  Book  for  God. 

Great  virtue  lurked  in  many  a  saw 

And  in  the  doctor's  Latin  lay ; 
Men  thought,  lived,  died,  in  the  appointed  way. 

Yet  eloquence  was  slave  to  law, 

And  law  to  right :  the  statesman  sought 
A  patriot's  fame,  and  served  his  land,  unbought, 
And  bore  erect  his  front,  and  held  his  oath  in  awe, 

IV 

JEREA  PROLES 

BUT,  now,  far  other  days 
Have  made  less  green  the  poet's  bays,  — 
Have  less  revered  the  band  and  gown, 
The  grave  physician's  learned  frown,  — 
Shaken  the  penitential  mind 
That  read  the  text  nor  looked  behind, — 
Brought  from  his  throne  the  bookman  down, 
Made  hard  the  road  to  station  and  renown  ! 
Now  from  this  seclusion  deep 
The  scholar  wakes,  —  as  one  from  sleep, 
As  one  from  sleep  remote  and  sweet, 
In  some  fragrant  garden-close 
Between  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Roused  by  the  tramp  of  many  feet, 
155 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Leaps  up  to  find  a  ruthless,  warring  band, 
Dust,  strife,  an  untried  weapon  in  his  hand  ! 

The  time  unto  itself  is  strange, 

Driven  on  from  change  to  change, 

Neither  of  past  nor  present  sure, 
The  ideal  vanished  nor  the  real  secure. 

Heaven  has  faded  from  the  skies, 
Faith  hides  apart  and  weeps  with  clouded  eyes  ; 
A  noise  of  cries  we  hear,  a  noise  of  creeds, 

While  the  old  heroic  deeds 
Not  of  the  leaders  now  are  told,  as  then, 

But  of  lowly,  common  men. 

See  by  what  paths  the  loud-voiced  gain 

Their  little  heights  above  the  plain : 

Truth,  honor,  virtue,  cast  away 

For  the  poor  plaudits  of  a  day  ! 
Now  fashion  guides  at  will 

The  artist's  brush,  the  writer's  quill, 

While,  for  a  weary  time  unknown, 

The  reverent  workman  toils  alone, 
Asking  for  bread  and  given  but  a  stone. 

Fettered  with  gold  the  statesman's  tongue; 

Now,  even  the  church,  among 
New  doubts  and  strange  discoveries,  half  in  vain 

Defends  her  long,  ancestral  reign  ; 

Now,  than  all  others  grown  more  great, 

That  which  was  the  last  estate 

By  turns  reflects  and  rules  the  age,  — 
Laughs,  scolds,  weeps,  counsels,  jeers,  —  a  jester  and 
sage ! 

V 

ENCHANTMENTS 

HERE  in  Learning's  shaded  haunt, 
The  battle-fugue  and  mingled  cries  forlorn 
Softened  to  music  seem,  nor  the  clear  spirit  daunt ; 

156 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 

Here,  in  the  gracious  world  that  looks 

From  earth  and  sky  and  books, 
Easeful  and  sweet  it  seems  all  else  to  scorn 
Than  works  of  noble  use  and  virtue  born ; 
Brave  hope  and  high  ambition  consecrate 

Our  coming  years  to  something  great. 
But  when  the  man  has  stood, 

Anon,  in  garish  outer  light, 
Feeling  the  first  wild  fever  of  the  blood 

That  places  self  with  self  at  strife 
Whether  to  hoard  or  drain  the  wine  of  life,  — 
When  the  broad  pageant  flares  upon  the  sight, 

And  tuneful  Pleasure  plumes  her  wing 
And  the  crowds  jostle  and  the  mad  bells  ring, — 
Then  he,  who  sees  the  vain  world  take  slow  heed 
Albeit  of  his  worthiest  and  best, 
And  still,  through  years  of  failure  and  unrest, 

Would  keep  inviolate  his  vow, 
Of  all  his  faith  and  valor  has  sore  need ! 
Even  then,  I  know,  do  nobly  as  we  will, 
What  we  would  not,  we  do,  and  see  not  how ; 
That  which  we  would,  is  not,  we  know  not  why ; 
Some  fortune  holds  us  from  our  purpose  still,— 
Chance  sternly  beats  us  back,  and  turns  our  steps  awry! 

VI 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

How  slow,  how  sure,  how  swift, 

The  sands  within  each  glass, 

The  brief,  illusive  moments,  pass  ! 

Half  unawares  we  mark  their  drift 
Till  the  awakened  heart  cries  out,  —  Alas  ! 

Alas,  the  fair  occasion  fled, 
The  precious  chance  to  action  all  unwed ! 
And  murmurs  in  its  depths  the  old  refrain, — 
Had  we  but  known  betimes  what  now  we  know  in  vain  ! 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

When  the  veil  from  the  eyes  is  lifted 

The  seer's  head  is  gray; 
When  the  sailor  to  shore  has  drifted 

The  sirens  are  far  away. 
Why  must  the  clearer  vision, 

The  wisdom  of  Life's  late  hour, 
Come,  as  in  Fate's  derision, 

When  the  hand  has  lost  its  power? 
Is  there  a  rarer  being, 

Is  there  a  fairer  sphere 
Where  the  strong  are  not  unseeing, 

And  the  harvests  are  not  sere; 
Where,  ere  the  season's  dwindle 

They  yield  their  due  return  ; 
Where  the  lamps  of  knowledge  kindle 

While- the  flames  of  youth  still  burn? 
O  for  the  young  man's  chances  ! 

O  for  the  old  man's  will ! 
Those  flee  while  this  advances, 

And  the  strong  years  cheat  us  still. 

VII 

WHAT  CHEER? 

Is  there  naught  else?  —  you  say, — 

No  braver  prospect  far  away  ? 

No  gladder  song,  no  ringing  call 

Beyond  the  misty  mountain-wall  ? 

And  were  it  thus  indeed,  I  know 

Your  hearts  would  still  with  courage  glow ; 

I  know  how  yon  historic  stream 

Is  laden  yet,  as  in  the  past, 

With  dreamful  longings  on  it  cast, 

By  those  who  saunter  from  the  crown 
Of  this  broad  slope,  their  reverend  Academe, — 
Who  reach  the  meadowed  banks,  and  lay  them  down 
On  the  green  sward,  and  set  their  faces  south, 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 

Embarked  in  Fancy's  shallop  there, 
And  with  the  current  seek  the  river's  mouth, 
Finding  the  outer  ocean  grand  and  fair. 

Ay,  like  a  stream's  perpetual  tide, 
Wave  after  wave  each  blithe,  successive  throng 
Must  join  the  main  and  wander  far  and  wide. 
To  you  the  golden,  vanward  years  belong ! 
Ye  need  not  fear  to  leave  the  shore : 
Not  seldom  youth  has  shamed  the  sage 
With  riper  wisdom, —  but  to  age 
Youth,  youth,  returns  no  more ! 
Be  yours  the  strength  by  will  to  conquer  fate, 
Since  to  the  man  who  sees  his  purpose  clear, 
And  gains  that  knowledge  of  his  sphere 
Within  which  lies  all  happiness, — 
Without,  all  danger  and  distress, — 
And  seeks  the  right,  content  to  strive  and  wait, 
To  him  all  good  things  flow,  nor  honor  crowns  him  late. 

VIII 

PHAROS 

ONE  such  there  was,  that  brother  elder-born 
And  loftiest,  —  from  your  household  torn 

In  the  rathe  spring-time,  ere 
His  steps  could  seek  their  olden  pathways  here. 

Mourn  ! 

Mourn,  for  your  Mother  mourns,  of  him  bereft, — 
Her  strong  one !  he  is  fallen  : 

But  has  left 

His  works  your  heritage  and  guide, 
Through  East  and  West  his  stalwart  fame  divide. 

Mourn,  for  the  liberal  youth, 
The  undaunted  spirit  whose  quintessence  rare, 

Fanned  by  the  Norseland  air, 
Saw  flaming  in  its  own  white  heat  the  truth 
That  Man,  whate'er  his  ancestry, 
159 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Tanned  by  what  sun  or  exiled  from  what  shore, 
Hears  in  his  soul  the  high  command,  —  Be  Free  ! 
For  him  who,  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 

Disdained  the  flowery  path,  and  gave 
His  succor  to  the  hunted  Afric  slave, 
Whose  cause  he  chose  nor  feared  the  world's  dispraise ; 
Yet  found  anon  the  right  become  the  might, 

And,  in  the  long  revenge  of  time, 
Lived  to  renown  and  hoary  years  sublime. 

Ye  know  him  now,  your  beacon-light ! 

Ay,  he  was  fronted  like  a  tower,  — 

In  thought  large-moulded,  as  of  frame ; 

He  that,  in  the  supreme  hour, 
Sat  brooding  at  the  river-heads  of  power 
With  sovereign  strength  for  every  need  that  came  ! 

Not  for  that  blameless  one  the  place 
That  opens  wide  to  men  of  lesser  race ;  — 

Even  as  of  old  the  votes  are  given, 
And  Aristides  is  from  Athens  driven  ; 
But  for  our  statesmen,  in  his  grander  trust 

No  less  the  undefiled,  The  Just, — 
With  poesy  and  learning  lightly  worn, 
And  knees  that  bent  to  Heaven  night  and  morn, — 
For  him  that  sacred,  unimpassioned  seat, 
Where  right  and  wrong  for  stainless  judgment  meet 
Above  the  greed,  the  strife,  the  party  call.  — 
Henceforth  let  CHASE'S  robes  on  no  base  shoulders  fall ! 

IX 

ATLANTIS  SURGENS 

WELL  may  your  hearts  be  valiant,  —  ye  who  stand 

Within  that  glory  from  the  past, 
And  see  how  ripe  the  time,  how  fair  the  land 
In  which  your  lot  is  cast ! 
For  us  alone  your  sorrow, 
Ye  children  of  the  morrow, — 
1 60 


DARTMOUTH    ODE 

For  us,  who  struggle  yet,  and  wait, 
Sent  forth  too  early  and  too  late  ! 
But  yours  shall  be  our  tenure  handed  down, 
Conveyed  in  blood,  stamped  with  the  martyr's  crown ; 
For  which  the  toilers  long  have  wrought, 
And  poets  sung,  and  heroes  fought ; 
The  new  Saturnian  age  is  yours, 
That  juster  season  soon  to  be 
On  the  near  coasts  (whereto  your  vessels  sail 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  gale), 
Of  proud  Atlantis  risen  from  the  sea ! 
You  shall  not  know  the  pain  that  now  endures 
The  surge,  the  smiting  of  the  waves, 

The  overhanging  thunder, 
The  shades  of  night  which  plunge  engulfed  under 

Those  yawning  island-caves  ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  you  shall  glisten  soon 
The  coral  circlet  and  the  still  lagoon, 

Green  shores  of  freedom,  blest  with  calms, 
And  sunlit  streams  and  meads,  and  shadowy  palms : 
Such  joys  await  you,  in  our  sorrows'  stead ; 

Thither  our  charts  have  almost  led ; 
Nor  in  that  land  shall  worth,  truth,  courage,  ask  for  alms. 

X 

VALETE  ET  SALVETE 

O,  TRAINED  beneath  the  Northern  Star ! 
Worth,  courage,  honor,  these  indeed 
Your  sustenance  and  birthright  are  ! 
Now,  from  her  sweet  dominion  freed, 
Your  Foster  Mother  bids  you  speed  ; 
Her  gracious  hands  the  gates  unbar, 
Her  richest  gifts  you  bear  away, 
Her  memories  shall  be  your  stay  : 
Go  where  you  will,  her  eyes  your  course  shall  mark  afar. 

June  25,  1873. 

161 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 


THE    OLD   ADMIRAL 

GONE  at  last, 

That  brave  old  hero  of  the  Past ! 
His  spirit  has  a  second  birth, 

An  unknown,  grander  life;  — 
All  of  him  that  was  earth 

Lies  mute  and  cold, 

Like  a  wrinkled  sheath  and  old 
Thrown  off  forever  from  the  shimmering  blade 
That  has  good  entrance  made 

Upon  some  distant,  glorious  strife. 

From  another  generation, 

A  simpler  age,  to  ours  Old  Ironsides  came; 
The  morn  and  noontide  of  the  nation 

Alike  he  knew,  nor  yet  outlived  his  fame, — 

O,  not  outlived  his  fame ! 
The  dauntless  men  whose  service  guards  our  shore 

Lengthen  still  their  glory-roll 

With  his  name  to  lead  the  scroll, 
As  a  flagship  at  her  fore 

Carries  the  Union,  with  its  azure  and  the  stars, 
Symbol  of  times  that  are  no  more 

And  the  old  heroic  wars. 

He  was  the  one 

Whom  Death  had  spared  alone 

Of  all  the  captains  of  that  lusty  age, 
Who  sought  the  foeman  where  he  lay, 
On  sea  or  sheltering  bay, 

Nor  till  the  prize  was  theirs  repressed  their  rage. 
They  are  gone,  —  all  gone  : 

They  rest  with  glory  and  the  undying  Powers ; 

Only  their  name  and  fame   and  what  they  saved  are 
ours ! 

162 


THE   OLD  ADMIRAL 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

Upon  the  Gallic  Sea, 

He  bore  the  banner  of  the  free, 
And  fought  the  fight  whereof  our  children  know. 

The  deathful,  desperate  fight !  — 

Under  the  fair  moon's  light 
The  frigate  squared,  and  yawed  to  left  and  right. 

Every  broadside  swept  to  death  a  score ! 
Roundly  played  her  guns  and  well,  till  their  fiery  ensigns 
fell, 

Neither  foe  replying  more. 

All  in  silence,  when  the  night-breeze  cleared  the  air, 

Old  Ironsides  rested  there, 
Locked  in  between  the  twain,  and  drenched  with  blood. 

Then  homeward,  like  an  eagle  with  her  prey ! 

O,  it  was  a  gallant  fray, 

That  fight  in  Biscay  Bay  ! 
Fearless  the  Captain  stood,  in  his  youthful  hardihood ; 

He  was  the  boldest  of  them  all, 

Our  brave  old  Admiral ! 

And  still  our  heroes  bleed, 
Taught  by  that  olden  deed. 

Whether  of  iron  or  of  oak 
The  ships  we  marshal  at  our  country's  need, 

Still  speak  their  cannon  now  as  then  they  spoke  ; 
Still  floats  our  unstruck  banner  from  the  mast 

As  in  the  stormy  Past. 

Lay  him  in  the  ground : 

Let  him  rest  where  the  ancient  river  rolls  ; 
Let  him  sleep  beneath  the  shadow  and  the  sound 

Of  the  bell  whose  proclamation,  as  it  tolls, 
Is  of  Freedom  and  the  gift  our  fathers  gave. 

Lay  him  gently  down  : 

The  clamor  of  the  town 

163 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Will  not  break  the  slumbers  deep,  the  beautiful  ripe  sleep 
Of  this  lion  of  the  wave, 
Will  not  trouble  the  old  Admiral  in  his  grave. 

Earth  to  earth  his  dust  is  laid. 
Methinks  his  stately  shade 

On  the  shadow  of  a  great  ship  leaves  the  shore ; 
Over  cloudless  western  seas 
Seeks  the  far  Hesperides, 

The  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  no  turbulent  billows  roar, — 

Where  is  rest. 

His  ghost  upon  the  shadowy  quarter  stands 
Nearing  the  deathless  lands. 

There  all  his  martial  mates,  renewed  and  strong, 

Await  his  coming  long. 

I  see  the  happy  Heroes  rise 

With  gratulation  in  their  eyes : 
"  Welcome,  old  comrade,"  Lawrence  cries ; 
"  Ah,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  ! 

Who  win  the  glory  and  the  scars  ? 

How  floats  the  skyey  flag,  —  how  many  stars  ? 

Still  speak  they  of  Decatur's  name, 

Of  Bainbridge's  and  Perry's  fame  ? 

Of  me,  who  earliest  came  ? 
Make  ready,  all : 
Room  for  the  Admiral ! 

Come,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  !  " 

November  22,  1869. 


HORACE    GREELEY 

EARTH,  let  thy  softest  mantle  rest 

On  this  worn  child  to  thee  returning, 

Whose  youth  was  nurtured  at  thy  breast, 
Who  loved  thee  with  such  tender  yearning ! 
164 


HORACE   GREELEY 

He  knew  thy  fields  and  woodland  ways, 

And  deemed  thy  humblest  son  his  brother :  — 

Asleep,  beyond  our  blame,  or  praise, 
We  yield  him  back,  O  gentle  Mother ! 

Of  praise,  of  blame  he  drank  his  fill : 

Who  has  not  read  the  life-long  story  ? 
And  dear  we  hold  his  fame,  but  still 

The  man  was  dearer  than  his  glory. 
And  now  to  us  are  left  alone 

The  closet  where  his  shadow  lingers, 
The  vacant  chair,  —  that  was  a  throne, — 

The  pen,  just  fallen  from  his  fingers. 

Wrath  changed  to  kindness  on  that  pen  ; 

Though  dipped  in  gall,  it  flowed  with  honey; 
One  flash  from  out  the  cloud,  and  then 

The  skies  with  smile  and  jest  were  sunny. 
Of  hate  he  surely  lacked  the  art, 

Who  made  his  enemy  his  lover : 
O  reverend  head  and  Christian  heart ! 

Where  now  their  like  the  round  world  over  ? 

He  saw  the  goodness,  not  the  taint, 

In  many  a  poor,  do-nothing  creature, 
And  gave  to  sinner  and  to  saint, 

But  kept  his  faith  in  human  nature; 
Perchance  he  was  not  worldly-wise, 

Yet  we  who  noted,  standing  nearer, 
The  shrewd,  kind  twinkle  in  his  eyes, 

For  every  weakness  held  him  dearer. 

Alas  that  unto  him  who  gave 

So  much,  so  little  should  be  given  ! 

Himself  alone  he  might  not  save 

Of  all  for  whom  his  hands  had  striven. 

Place,  freedom,  fame,  his  work  bestowed : 

Men  took,  and  passed,  and  left  him  lonely ;  — 

165 


POEMS    OF   OCCASION 

What  marvel  if,  beneath  his  load, 

At  times  he  craved  —  for  justice  only  ! 

Yet  thanklessness,  the  serpent's  tooth, 

His  lofty  purpose  could  not  alter ; 
Toil  had  no  power  to  bend  his  youth, 

Or  make  his  lusty  manhood  falter ; 
From  envy's  sling,  from  slander's  dart, 

That  armored  soul  the  body  shielded, 
Till  one  dark  sorrow  chilled  his  heart, 

And  then  he  bowed  his  head  and  yielded. 

Now,  now,  we  measure  at  its  worth 

The  gracious  presence  gone  forever ! 
The  wrinkled  East,  that  gave  him  birth, 

Laments  with  every  laboring  river ; 
Wild  moan  the  free  winds  of  the  West 

For  him  who  gathered  to  her  prairies 
The  sons  of  men,  and  made  each  crest 

The  haunt  of  happy  household  fairies ; 

And  anguish  sits  upon  the  mouth 

Of  her  who  came  to  know  him  latest : 
His  heart  was  ever  thine,  O  South  ! 

He  was  thy  truest  friend,  and  greatest ! 
He  shunned  thee  in  thy  splendid  shame, 

He  stayed  thee  in  thy  voiceless  sorrow ; 
The  day  thou  shalt  forget  his  name, 

Fair  South,  can  have  no  sadder  morrow. 

The  tears  that  fall  from  eyes  unused,— 
The  hands  above  his  grave  united,— 

The  words  of  men  whose  lips  he  loosed, 

Whose  cross  he  bore,  whose  wrongs  he  righted, 

Could  he  but  know,  and  rest  with  this  ! 

Yet  stay,  through  Death's  low-lying  hollow, 

166 


THE   MONUMENT   OF   GREELEY 

His  one  last  foe's  insatiate  hiss 

On  that  benignant  shade  would  follow ! 

Peace !  while  we  shroud  this  man  of  men 

Let  no  unhallowed  word  be  spoken  ! 
He  will  not  answer  thee  again, 

His  mouth  is  sealed,  his  wand  is  broken. 
Some  holier  cause,  some  vaster  trust 

Beyond  the  veil,  he  doth  inherit : 
O  gently,  Earth,  receive  his  dust, 

And  Heaven  soothe  his  troubled  spirit ! 

December  3,  1872. 


THE   MONUMENT    OF  GREELEY 

READ  AT  THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  BUST  SURMOUNTING  THE  PRINTERS* 
MONUMENT  TO  HORACE  GREELEY,  GREENWOOD  CEMETERY,  DE 
CEMBER  4,  1876 

ONCE  more,  dear  mother  Earth,  we  stand 

In  reverence  where  thy  bounty  gave 
Our  brother,  yielded  to  thy  hand, 

The  sweet  protection  of  the  grave  ! 
Well  hast  thou  soothed  him  through  the  years, 

The  years  our  love  and  sorrow  number, — 
And  with  thy  smiles,  and  with  thy  tears, 

Made  green  and  fair  his  place  of  slumber. 

Thine  be  the  keeping  of  that  trust ; 

And  ours  this  image,  born  of  Art 
To  shine  above  his  hidden  dust, 

What  time  the  sunrise  breezes  part 
The  trees,  and  with  new  life  enwreathe 

Yon  head,  —  until  the  lips  are  golden, 
And  from  them  music  seems  to  breathe 

As  from  the  desert  statue  olden. 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Would  it  were  so  !  that  now  we  might 

Hear  once  his  uttered  voice  again, 
Or  hold  him  present  to  our  sight, 

Nor  reach  with  empty  hands  and  vain  ! 
O  that,  from  some  far  place,  were  heard 

One  cadence  of  his  speech  returning,  — 
A  whispered  tone,  a  single  word, 

Sent  back  in  answer  to  our  yearning ! 

It  may  not  be  ?  What  then  the  spark, 

The  essence  which  illumed  the  whole 
And  made  his  living  form  its  mark 

And  outward  likeness  ?   What  the  soul 
That  warmed  the  heart  and  poised  the  head, 

And  spoke  the  thoughts  we  now  inherit  ? 
Bright  force  of  fire  and  ether  bred,  — 

Where  art  thou  now,  elusive  Spirit  ? 

Where,  now,  the  sunburst  of  a  love 

Which  blended  still  with  sudden  wrath 
To  nerve  the  righteous  hand  that  strove, 

And  blaze  in  the  oppressor's  path  ? 
Fair  Earth,  our  dust  is  thine  indeed  ! 

Too  soon  he  reached  the  voiceless  portal, 
That  whither  leads  ?   Where  lies  the  mead 

He  gained,  and  knew  himself  immortal  ? 

Or,  tell  us,  on  what  distant  star, 

Where  even  as  here  are  toil  and  wrong, 

With  strength  renewed  he  lifts  afar 
A  voice  of  aid,  a  war-cry  strong  ? 

What  fruit,  this  stern  Olympiad  past, 
Has  that  rich  nature  elsewhere  yielded, 

What  conquest  gained  and  knowledge  vast, 

What  kindred  beings  loved  and  shielded ! 


168 


THE   MONUMENT   OF   GREELEY 

Why  seek  to  know  ?  he  little  sought, 

Himself,  to  lift  the  close-drawn  veil, 
Nor  for  his  own  salvation  wrought 

And  pleaded,  ay,  and  wore  his  mail ; 
No  selfish  grasp  of  life,  no  fear, 

Won  for  mankind  his  ceaseless  caring, 
But  for  themselves  he  held  them  dear,  — 

Their  birth  and  shrouded  exit  sharing. 

Not  his  the  feverish  will  to  live 

A  sunnier  life,  a  longer  space, 
Save  that  the  Eternal  Law  might  give 

The  boon  in  common  to  his  race. 
Earth,  Jt  was  thy  heaven  he  loved,  and  best 

Thy  precious  offspring,  man  and  woman, 
And  labor  for  them  seemed  but  rest 

To  him,  whose  nature  was  so  human. 

Even  here  his  spirit  haply  longed 

To  stay,  remembered  by  our  kind, 
And  where  the  haunts  of  men  are  thronged 

Move  yet  among  them.    Seek  and  find 
A  presence,  though  his  voice  has  ceased, 

Still,  even  where  we  dwell,  remaining, 
With  all  its  tenderest  thrills  increased 

And  all  it  cared  to  ask  obtaining. 

List,  how  the  varied  things  that  took 

The  impress  of  his  passion  rare 
Make  answer!    To  the  roadways  look, 

The  watered  vales,  the  hamlets  fair. 
He  walks  unseen  the  living  woods, 

The  fields,  the  town,  the  shaded  borough, 
And  in  the  pastoral  solitudes 

Delights  to  view  the  lengthening  furrow. 


169 


POEMS   OF    OCCASION 

The  faithful  East  that  cradled  him, 

Still,  while  she  deems  her  nurseling  sleeps, 
Sits  by  his  couch  with  vision  dim ; 

The  plenteous  West  his  feast-day  keeps ; 
The  wistful  South  recalls  the  ways 

Of  one  who  in  his  love  enwound  her, 
And  stayed  her,  in  the  evil  days, 

With  arms  of  comfort  thrown  around  her. 

He  lives  wherever  men  to  men 

In  perilous  hours  his  words  repeat, 
Where  clangs  the  forge,  where  glides  the  pen, 

Where  toil  and  traffic  crowd  the  street ; 
And  in  whatever  time  or  place 

Earth's  purest  souls  their  purpose  strengthen, 
Down  the  broad  pathway  of  his  race 

The  shadow  of  his  name  shall  lengthen. 

u  Still  with  us  !  "  all  the  liegemen  cry 

Who  read  his  heart  and  held  him  dear ; 
The  hills  declare  "  He  shall  not  die  !  " 

The  prairies  answer  "  He  is  here !  " 
Immortal  thus,  no  dread  of  fate 

Be  ours,  no  vain  memento  mor'i : 
Life,  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate,  — 

A  lasting  presence  touched  with  glory. 

The  star  may  vanish,  —  but  a  ray, 

Sent  forth,  what  mandate  can  recall  ? 
The  circling  wave  still  keeps  its  way 

That  marked  a  turret's  seaward  fall ; 
The  least  of  music's  uttered  strains 

Is  part  of  Nature's  voice  forever ; 
And  aye  beyond  the  grave  remains 

The  great,  the  good  man's  high  endeavor ! 


170 


THE   MONUMENT   OF   GREEREY 

Well  may  the  brooding  Earth  retake 

The  form  we  knew,  to  be  a  part 
Of  bloom  and  herbage,  fern  and  brake, 

New  lives  that  from  her  being  start. 
Naught  of  the  soul  shall  there  remain  : 

They  came  on  void  and  darkness  solely 
Who  the  veiled  Spirit  sought  in  vain 

Within  the  temple's  shrine  Most  Holy. 

That,  that,  has  found  again  the  source 

From  which  itself  to  us  was  lent : 
The  Power  that,  in  perpetual  course, 

Makes  of  the  dust  an  instrument 
Supreme  ;  the  universal  Soul ; 

The  current  infinite  and  single 
Wherein,  as  ages  onward  roll, 

Life,  Thought,  and  Will  forever  mingle. 

What  more  is  left,  to  keep  our  hold 

On  him  who  was  so  true  and  strong  ? 
This  semblance,  raised  above  the  mould 

With  offerings  of  word  and  song, 
That  men  may  teach,  in  aftertime, 

Their  sons  how  goodness  marked  the  features 
Of  one  whose  life  was  made  sublime 

By  service  for  his  brother  creatures. 

And  last,  and  lordliest,  his  fame, — 

A  station  in  the  sacred  line 
Of  heroes  that  have  left  a  name 

We  conjure  with,  —  a  place  divine, 
Since,  in  the  world's  eternal  plan, 

Divinity  itself  is  given, 
To  him  who  lives  or  dies  for  Man 

And  looks  within  his  soul  for  Heaven. 


POEMS    OF   OCCASION 


CUSTER 

WHAT  !  shall  that  sudden  blade 

Leap  out  no  more  ? 
No  more  thy  hand  be  laid 
Upon  the  sword-hilt,  smiting  sore  ? 

O  for  another  such 
The  charger's  rein  to  clutch, — 
One  equal  voice  to  summon  victory, 

Sounding  thy  battle-cry, 
Brave  darling  of  the  soldiers'  choice  ! 
Would  there  were  one  more  voice ! 

O  gallant  charge,  too  bold  ! 
O  fierce,  imperious  greed 

To  pierce  the  clouds  that  in  their  darkness  hold 
Slaughter  of  man  and  steed  ! 

Now,  stark  and  cold, 
Among  thy  fallen  braves  thou  liest, 
And  even  with  thy  blood  defiest 

The  wolfish  foe : 
But  ah,  thou  liest  low, 
And  all  our  birthday  song  is  hushed  indeed ! 

Young  lion  of  the  plain, 

Thou  of  the  tawny  mane  ! 
Hotly  the  soldiers'  heart  shall  beat, 

Their  mouths  thy  death  repeat, 
Their  vengeance  seek  the  trail  again 

Where  thy  red  doomsmen  be ; 
But  on  the  charge  no  more  shall  stream 
Thy  hair, —  no  more  thy  sabre  gleam, 

No  more  ring  out  thy  battle-shout, 
Thy  cry  of  victory  ! 


172 


CORDA    CONCORDIA 

Not  when  a  hero  falls 

The  sound  a  world  appalls  : 

For  while  we  plant  his  cross 
There  is  a  glory,  even  in  the  loss : 

But  when  some  craven  heart 

From  honor  dares  to  part, 
Then,  then,  the  groan,  the  blanching  cheek, 

And  men  in  whispers  speak, 
Nor  kith  nor  country  dare  reclaim 

From  the  black  depths  his  name. 

Thou,  wild  young  warrior,  rest, 
By  all  the  prairie  winds  caressed  ! 

Swift  was  thy  dying  pang; 

Even  as  the  war-cry  rang 
Thy  deathless  spirit  mounted  high 

And  sought  Columbia's  sky  :  — 

There,  to  the  northward  far, 
Shines  a  new  star, 

And  from  it  blazes  down 

The  light  of  thy  renown  ! 

July  10,  1876. 


CORDA  CONCORDIA 

READ  AT  THE  OPENING  SESSION  OF  THE  SUMMER  SCHOOL  OF 
PHILOSOPHY,  CONCORD,  JULY  n,  1881 

No  sandalled  footsteps  fall, 

Tablet  and  coronal 
From  the  Cephissian  grove  have  vanished  long, 

Yet  in  the  sacred  dale 

Still  bides  the  nightingale 
Easing  his  ancient  heart-break  still  with  song ; 

Or  is  there  some  dim  audience 
Viewless  to  all  save  his  unclouded  sense  ? 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Revisit  now  those  glades 

The  stately  mantled  shades 
Whose  lips  so  wear  the  inexorable  spell  ? 

Saying,  with  heads  sunk  low, 

All  that  we  sought,  we  know,  — 
We  know,  but  not  to  mortal  ears  may  tell  : 

No  answer  unto  man's  desire 
Shall  thus  be  made,  to  quench  his  eager  fire. 

Under  these  orchard  trees 

Still  pure  and  fresh  the  breeze 
As  where  the  plane-tree  whispered  to  the  elm ;  * 

The  thrush  and  robin  bring 

A  new-world  offering 
Of  song, —  nor  are  we  banished  from  the  realm 

Of  thought  that  as  the  wind  is  pure, 
And  converse  deep,  and  memories  that  endure. 

Some  honey  dropped  as  well, 

Some  dew  of  hydromel 
From  wilding  meadow-bees,  upon  the  lips 

Of  poet  and  sage  who  found, 

Here  on  our  own  dear  ground, 
Light  as  of  old ;  who  let  no  dull  eclipse 
Obscure  this  modern  sky,  where  first 
Through  perilous  clouds  the  dawn  of  freedom  burst, 

Within  this  leafy  haunt 

Their  service  ministrant 
Upheld  the  nobler  freedom  of  the  soul. 

How  was  it  hither  came 

The  message  and  the  flame 
Anew  ?    Make  answer  from  thine  aureole, 

O  mother  Nature,  thou  who  best 
Man's  heart  in  all  thy  ways  interpretest ! 

1  Aristophanes,  Nubes,  995. 


174 


CORDA   CONCORDIA 

High  thoughts  of  thee  brought  near 

Unto  our  minstrel-seer 
The  antique  calm,  the  Asian  wisdom  old, 

Till  in  his  verse  we  heard 

Of  blossom,  bee,  and  bird, 
Of  mountain  crag  and  pine,  the  manifold 

Rich  song,  —  and  on  the  world  his  eyes 
Dwelt  penetrant  with  vision  sweet  and  wise. 

Whence  came  the  silver  tongue 

To  one  forever  young 
Who  spoke  until  our  hearts  within  us  burned  ? 

This  reverend  one,  who  took 

No  palimpsest  or  book, 
But  read  his  soul  with  glances  inward  turned, 

While  (her  rapt  forehead  like  the  dawn) 
The  Sibyl  listened,  by  that  music  drawn, 

And  from  her  fearless  mouth, 

Where  never  speech  had  drouth, 
Gave  voice  to  some  old  chant  of  womanhood, 

Her  own  imaginings, 

Like  swift,  resplendent  things, 
Flashing  from  eyes  that  knew  to  beam  or  brood. 

What  sought  these  shining  ones  ?    What  thought 
From  preacher-saint  have  poet  and  teacher  caught  ? 

In  scorn  of  meaner  use, 

Anon,  the  young  recluse 
Builded  his  hut  beside  the  woodland  lake, 

And  set  the  world  far  off, 

Though  with  no  will  to  scoff, 
Thus  from  the  Earth's  near  breast  fresh  life  to  take, 

Against  her  bosom,  heart  to  heart, 
All  Nature's  sweets  he  ravished  for  his  Art. 


175 


POEMS    OF   OCCASION 

The  soul's  fine  instrument, 

Of  pains  and  raptures  blent, 
Replied  to  these  clear  voices,  tone  for  tone, 

Their  cadence  answering 

With  tuneful  sounds  that  wing 
The  upper  air  a  few  perchance  have  known, 

The  stormless  empyrean,  where 
In  strength  and  joy  a  few  move  unaware. 

Ah,  even  thus  the  thrill 

Of  life  beyond  life's  ill 
To  feel  betimes  our  envious  selves  are  fain,  — 

Seeing  that,  as  birds  in  night 

Wind-driven  against  the  light 
Whose  unseen  armor  mocks  their  stress  and  pain, 

Most  men  fall  baffled  in  the  surge 
That  to  their  cry  responds  but  with  a  dirge. 

Where  broods  the  Absolute, 

Or  shuns  our  long  pursuit 
By  fiery  utmost  pathways  out  of  ken  ? 

Fleeter  than  sunbeams,  lo, 

Our  passionate  spirits  go, 
And  traverse  immemorial  space,  and  then 

Look  off,  and  look  in  vain,  to  find 
The  master-clew  to  all  they  left  behind. 

White  orbs  like  angels  pass 

Before  the  triple  glass, 
That  men  may  scan  the  record  of  each  flame,  — 

Of  spectral  line  and  line 

The  legendry  divine,  — 
Finding  their  mould  the  same,  and  aye  the  same, 

The  atoms  that  we  knew  before 
Of  which  ourselves  are  made, —  dust,  and  no  more. 


CORDA   CONCORDIA 

So  let  our  defter  art 

Probe  the  warm  brain,  and  part 
Each  convolution  of  the  trembling  shell : 

But  whither  now  has  fled 

The  sense  to  matter  wed 
That  murmured  here  ?  All  silence,  such  as  fell 

When  to  the  shrine  beyond  the  Ark 
The  soldiers  reached,  and  found  it  void  and  dark. 

Seek  elsewhere,  and  in  vain 

The  wings  of  morning  chain  ; 
Their  speed  transmute  to  fire,  and  bring  the  Light, 

The  co-eternal  beam 

Of  the  blind  minstrel's  dream  ; 
But  think  not  that  bright  heat  to  know  aright, 

Nor  how  the  trodden  seed  takes  root, 
Waked  by  its  glow,  and  climbs  to  flower  and  fruit. 

Behind  each  captured  law 

Weird  shadows  give  us  awe ; 
Press  with  your  swords,  the  phantoms  still  evade ; 

Through  our  alertest  host 

Wanders  at  ease  some  ghost, 
Now  here,  now  there,  by  no  enchantment  laid, 

And  works  upon  our  souls  its  will, 
Leading  us  on  to  subtler  mazes  still. 

We  think,  we  feel,  we  are ; 

And  light,  as  of  a  star, 
Gropes  through  the  mist,  —  a  little  light  is  given ; 

And  aye  from  life  and  death 

We  strive,  with  indrawn  breath, 
To  somehow  wrest  the  truth,  and  long  have  striven, 

Nor  pause,  though  book  and  star  and  clod 
Reply,  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out  God? 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

As  from  the  hollow  deep 

The  soul's  strong  tide  must  keep 
Its  purpose  still.  We  rest  not,  though  we  hear 

No  voice  from  heaven  let  fall, 

No  chant  antiphonal 
Sounding  through  sunlit  clefts  that  open  near  -, 

We  look  not  outward,  but  within, 
And  think  not  quite  to  end  as  we  begin. 

For  now  the  questioning  age 

Cries  to  each  hermitage, 
Cease  not  to  ask,  —  or  bring  again  the  time 

When  the  young  world's  belief 

Made  light  the  mourner's  grief 
And  strong  the  sage's  word,  the  poet's  rhyme,  — 

Ere  Knowledge    thrust  a  spear-head  through 
The  temple's  veil  that  priest  so  closely  drew. 

From  what  our  fate  inurns  — 

Save  that  which  music  yearns 
To  speak,  in  ecstasy  none  understand, 

And  (Oh,  how  like  to  it !) 

The  half-formed  rays  that  flit, 
Like  memories  vague,  above  the  further  land  — 

Cry,  as  the  star-led  Magi  cried, 
We  seek,  we  seek,  we  will  not  be  denied! 

Let  the  blind  throng  await 

A  healer  at  the  gate ; 
Our  hearts  press  on  to  see  what  yonder  lies, 

Knowing  that  arch  on  arch 

Shall  loom  across  the  march 
And  over  portals  gained  new  strongholds  rise. 

The  search  itself  a  glory  brings, 
Though  foiled  so  oft,  that  seeks  the  soul  of  things. 


.78 


CORDA   CONCORDIA 

Some  brave  discovery, 

Howbeit  in  vain  we  try 
To  clutch  the  shape  that  lures  us  evermore, 

It  shall  be  ours  to  make,- — 

As,  where  the  waters  break 
Upon  the  margin  of  a  pathless  shore, 

They  find,  who  sought  for  gold  alone, 
The  sudden  wonders  of  a  clime  unknown. 

Such  treasure  by  the  way 

Your  errantry  shall  pay, 
Nor  shall  it  aught  against  your  hope  prevail 

That  not  to  waking  eyes 

The  golden  clouds  arise 
Wherewith  our  visions  clothe  the  mystic  Grail, 

When,  in  blithe  halts  upon  the  road, 
We  sleep  where  pilgrims  earlier  gone  abode. 

After  the  twelvemonth  set 

When  as  of  old  they  met, 
(A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  and  kept  their  tryst,) 

And  knight  to  pilgrim  told 

Things  given  them  to  behold, 
What  country  found,  what  gained  of  all  they  wist, 

(While  ministering  hands  assign 
To  each  a  share  of  healing  food  and  wine,) 

So  come,  —  when  long  grass  waves 

Above  the  holiest  graves 
Of  them  whose  ripe  adventure  chides  our  own, — 

Come  where  the  great  elms  lean 

Their  quivering  leaves  and  green 
To  shade  the  moss-clung  roofs  now  sacred  grown, 

And  where  the  bronze  and  granite  tell 
How  Liberty  was  hailed  with  Life's  farewell. 


179 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Here  let  your  Academe 

Be  no  ignoble  dream, 
But,  consecrate  with  life  and  death  and  song, 

Through  the  land's  spaces  spread 

The  trust  inherited, 
The  hope  which  from  your  hands  shall  take  no  wrong, 

And  build  an  altar  that  may  last 
Till  heads  now  young  be  laurelled  with  the  Past. 


"UBI    SUNT    QUI    ANTE    NOS?" 

READ  AT  THE  SEMI-CENTENNIAL  MEETING  OF  THE  CENTURY  ASSO 
CIATION,  JANUARY  13,  1897 

How  now  are  the  Others  faring  ?     Where  sit  They  all  in 

state  ? 
And  is  there  a  token  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  muffled 

gate, 
The  vanished  and  unreturning,  whose  names  our  memories 

fill, 
Are  holding  their  upper  conclave  and  are  of  the  Century 

still  ? 

Is  it  all  a  fancy  that  somewhere,  that  somehow,  the  mindful 

Dead, 
From  the  first   that  made  his   exit  to  the  latest  kinsman 

sped, — 
Their  vision  ourselves  unnoting,  their  shapes  by  ourselves 

unseen, — 
Have  gathered  like  us,  together  this  night  in  that  strange 

demesne  ? 

That  the  astral  world's  telepathy  along  their  aisles  of  light 
Has  summoned  our  brave  immortals,  this  selfsame  mortal 

night, 

All  in  that  rare  existence  where  thoughts  a  substance  are, 
To  their  native  planet's  aura,  from  journeyings  near  and  far; 

1 80 


UBI   SUNT   QUI   ANTE   NOS 

And  that  now  with  forms  made  over,  and  life  as  jocund  and 
young 

As  when  they  here  kept  wassail  and  joined  in  the  catches 
sung, 

They  have  met  in  the  ancient  fashion,  and  now  in  the  old- 
time  speech 

Are  chanting  their  Vivat  Centuria  just  out  of  our  hearing's 
reach  ? 

Yes,  O  yes, — as  the  pictured  ghosts  of  Huns  war  on  in 

middle  air 
With    a    fiercer    battle-hunger    from    the    field   upflinging 

there,  — 
And  since  the  things  we  have  chosen  from  all,  as  most  of 

worth 
Forever  here  and  hereafter,  cease  not  with  the  end  of  Earth; 

Since  joy  and  knowledge  and  beauty,  and  the  love  of  man  to 

man 

Passing  the  love  of  women,  the  links  of  our  chain  began, — 
Yea,  even  as  these  are  ceaseless,  so  they  who  were  liegemen 

here 
Hark  back  and  are  all  Centurions  this  night  of  the  fiftieth 

year ! 

Yes,  the  draftsmen  and  craftsmen  have  fashioned  with  a 

dream's  compelling  force 
The  Century's  lordlier  temple,  have  builded  it  course  on 

course, 

And  a  luminiferous  ether  floods  the  great  assembly-hall 
Where  the  scintillant  "C.  A."  colophon  burns  high  in  the 

sight  of  all. 

The  painters  have  hung  from  end  to  end  cloud-canvases 

ablaze 
With  that  color-scheme  from  us  hidden  in  the  ultra-violet 

rays, 

181 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

With  the  new  chiaroscuro  of  things  that  each  way  face, 
And  the  in-and-out  perspective  of  their  four-dimensioned 
space. 

O,  to  hear  the  famed  Cantators  upraise  the  mighty  chant, 
With  their  bass  transposed  to  the  tumbling  depth  below  our 

octaves  scant, 
And  a  tenor  of  those  Elysian  notes  "  too  fine  for  mortal 

ear," 
Yet  tuned  to  the  diapason  of  this  dear  old  darkling  sphere  ! 

And  O,  to  catch  but  a  glimpse  of  the  company  thronged 

around  — 
The  scholars   that   know  it  all  at  last,  the   poets   finally 

crowned ! 
There  the  blithe  divines,  that  fear  no  more  the  midnight 

chimes,  sit  each 
With  his  halo  tilted  a  trifle,  and  his  harp  at  easy  reach ; 

There  all  the  jolly  Centurions  of  high  or  low  degree, 
This  night  of  nights,  as  in  early  time,  foregather  gloriously, — 
Come  back,  mayhap,  from  Martian  meads,  from  many  an 

orb  come  back, 
Full  sure  the  cheer  they  cared  for  here  this  night  shall  have 

no  lack ; 

For  they  know  the  jovial  servitors  have  mingled  a  noble  brew 
Of  the  tipple  men  call  nectarean,  the  pure  celestial  dew, 
And  are  passing  around  ambrosial  cakes,  while  the  incense- 
clouds  arise 

Of  something  akin  to  those  earthly  fumes  not  even  the  Blest 
despise. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  could  we  listen,  we  might  o'erhear 

them  say 
They  would  barter  a  year  of  Aidenn  to  be  here  for  a  night 

and  a  day ; 

182 


HAWTHORNE 

And  if  one  of  us  yearns  to  follow  the  paths  that  thitherward 

wend  — 
Let  him  rest  content,  —  let  him  have  no  fear,  —  he  verily 

shall  in  the  end. 

Then  not  for  the  quick  alone  this  hour  unbar  the  entrance 
gate, 

But  a  health  to  the  brethren  gone  before,  however  they  hold 
their  state  ! 

Nor  think  it  all  fancy  that  to  our  hearts  there  comes  an  an 
swering  thrill 

From  the  Dead  that  echo  our  Vivats  and  are  of  the  Century 
still. 

HAWTHORNE 

HARP  of  New  England  song, 
That  even  in  slumber  tremblest  with  the  touch 

Of  poets  who  like  the  four  winds  from  thee  waken 
All  harmonies  that  to  thy  strings  belong, — 
Say,  wilt  thou  blame  the  younger  hands  too  much 

Which  from  thy  laurelled  resting-place  have  taken 
Thee,  crowned-one,  in  their  hold  ?  There  is  a  name 
Should  quicken  thee  !  No  carol  Hawthorne  sang, 
Yet  his  articulate  spirit,  like  thine  own, 

Made  answer,  quick  as  flame, 

To  each  breath  of  the  shore  from  which  he  sprang, 
And  prose  like  his  was  poesy's  high  tone. 

By  measureless  degrees 
Star  follows  star  throughout  the  rounded  night. 

Far  off  his  path  began,  yet  reached  the  near 
Sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades, — 
A  portion  and  a  sharer  of  the  light 

That  shall  so  long  outlast  each  burning  sphere. 
Beneath  the  shade  and  whisper  of  the  pines 

Two  youths  were  fostered  in  the  Norseland  air; 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

One  found  an  eagle's  plume,  and  one  the  wand 

Wherewith  a  seer  divines  : 
Now  but  the  Minstrel  lingers  of  that  pair,  — 
The  rod  has  fallen  from  the  mage's  hand. 

Gray  on  thy  mountain  height, 
More  fair  than  wonderland  beside  thy  streams, 

Thou  with  the  splendors  twain  of  youth  and  age, 
This  was  the  son  who  read  thy  heart  aright, 
Of  whom  thou  wast  beholden  in  his  dreams, — 
The  one  New-Englander!   Upon  whose  page 
Thine  offspring  still  are  animate,  and  move 

Adown  thy  paths,  a  quaint  and  stately  throng : 
Grave  men  of  God  who  made  the  olden  law, 

Fair  maidens,  meet  for  love, — 
All  living  types  that  to  the  coast  belong 

Since  Carver  from  the  prow  thy  headland  saw. 

What  should  the  master  be 
Who  to  the  world  New-England's  self  must  render, 

Her  best  interpreter,  her  very  own  ? 
How  spake  the  brooding  Mother,  strong  and  tender, 
Back-looking  through  her  youth  betwixt  the  moan 

Of  forests  and  the  murmur  of  the  sea? 
u  Thou  too,"  she  said,  "  must  first  be  set  aside 

To  keep  my  ancient  vigil  for  a  space, — 
Taught  by  repression,  by  the  combating 

With  thine  own  pride  of  pride, 
An  unknown  watcher  in  a  lonely  place 

With  none  on  whom  thine  utterance  to  fling." 

But  first  of  all  she  fed 
Her  heart's  own  favorite  upon  the  store 

Of  precious  things  she  treasures  in  her  woods, 
Of  charm  and  story  in  her  valleys  spread. 
For  him  her  whispering  winds  and  brooks  that  pour 
Made  ceaseless  music  in  the  solitudes ; 
184 


HAWTHORNE 

The  manifold  bright  surges  of  her  deep 

Gave  him  their  light.  Within  her  voice's  call 
She  lured  him  on,  by  roadways  overhung 

With  elms,  that  he  might  keep 
Remembrance  of  her  legends  as  they  fall 
Her  shaded  walks  and  gabled  roofs  among. 

Within  the  mists  she  drew, 
Anon,  his  silent  footsteps,  as  her  own 

Were  led  of  old,  until  he  came  to  be 
An  eremite,  whose  life  the  desert  knew, 
And  gained  companionship  in  dreams  alone. 

The  world,  it  seemed,  had  naught  for  such  as  he, — 
For  one  who  in  his  heart's  deep  wilderness 

Shrunk  darkling,  and,  whatever  wind  might  blow, 
Found  no  quick  use  for  potent  hands  and  fain, 

No  chance  that  might  express 

To  humankind  the  thoughts  which  moved  him  so. 
O,  deem  not  those  long  years  were  quite  in  vain  ! 

For  his  was  the  brave  soul 
Which,  touched  with  fire,  dwells  not  on  whatsoever 

Its  outer  senses  hold  in  their  intent, 
But,  sleepless  even  in  sleep,  must  gather  toll 
Of  dreams  which  pass  like  barks  upon  the  river 

And  make  each  vision  Beauty's  instrument ; 
That  from  its  own  love  Love's  delight  can  tell, 

And  from  its  own  grief  guess  the  shrouded  Sorrow ; 
From  its  own  joyousness  of  Joy  can  sing; 

That  can  predict  so  well 
From  its  own  dawn  the  lustre  of  to-morrow, 
The  whole  flight  from  the  flutter  of  the  wing. 

And  his  the  gift  which  sees 
A  revelation  and  a  tropic  sign 

In  the  lone  passion-flower,  and  can  discover 
The  likeness  of  the  far  Antipodes, 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Though  but  a  leaf  is  stranded  from  the  brine ; 

His  the  fine  spirit  which  is  so  true  a  lover 
Of  sovran  Art,  that  all  the  becks  of  life 

Allure  it  not  until  the  work  be  wrought. 
Nay,  though  the  shout  and  smoke  of  combat  rose, 

He,  through  the  changeful  strife, 
Eternal  loveliness  more  closely  sought, 

And  Beauty's  changeless  law  and  sure  repose. 

Was  it  not  well  that  one  — 
One,  if  no  more  —  should  meditate  aloof, 

Though  not  for  naught  the  time's  heroic  quarrel, 
From  what  men  rush  to  do  and  what  is  done. 
He  little  knew  to  ioin  the  web  and  woof 

Whereof  slow  Progress  weaves  her  rich  apparel, 
But  toward  the  Past  half  longing  turned  his  head. 

His  deft  hand  dallied  with  its  common  share 
Of  human  toil,  nor  sought  new  loads  to  lift 

But  held  itself,  instead, 
All  consecrate  to  uses  that  make  fair, 
By  right  divine  of  his  mysterious  gift. 

How  should  the  world  discern 
The  artist's  self,  save  through  the  fine  creation 

Of  his  rare  moment  ?   How,  but  from  his  song, 
The  unfettered  spirit  of  the  minstrel  learn  ? 
Yet  on  this  one  the  stars  had  set  the  station 

Which  to  the  chief  romancer  should  belong  : 
Child  of  the  Beautiful !  whose  regnant  brow 

She  made  her  canopy,  and  from  his  eyes 
Looked  outward  with  a  steadfast  purple  gleam. 

Who  saw  him  marvelled  how 
The  soul  of  that  impassioned  ray  could  lie 
So  calm  beyond,  —  unspoken  all  its  dream. 

What  sibyl  to  him  bore 
The  secret  oracles  that  move  and  haunt  ? 

186 


HAWTHORNE 

At  night's  dread  noon  he  scanned  the  enchanted  glass, 
Ay,  and  himself  the  warlock's  mantle  wore, 
Nor  to  the  thronging  phantoms  said  Avaunt, 

But  waved  his  rod  and  bade  them  rise  and  pass  ; 
Till  thus  he  drew  the  lineaments  of  men 

Who  fought  the  old  colonial  battles  three, 
Who  with  the  lustihood  of  Nature  warred 
And  made  her  docile,  —  then 

Wrestled  with  Terror  and  with  Tyranny, 
Twin  wardens  of  the  scaffold  and  the  sword. 

He  drew  his  native  land, 
The  few  and  rude  plantations  of  her  Past, 

Fringed  by  the  beaches  of  her  sounding  shore ; 
Her  children,  as  he  drew  them,  there  they  stand ; 
There,  too,  her  Present,  with  an  outline  cast 

Still  from  the  shape  those  other  centuries  wore. 
Betimes  the  orchards  and  the  clover-fields 

Change  into  woods  o'ershadowing  a  host 

That  winds  along  the  Massachusetts  Path ; 

The  sword  of  Standish  shields 

The  Plymouth  band,  and  where  the  lewd  ones  boast 
Stern  Endicott  pours  out  his  godly  wrath. 

Within  the  Province  House 

The  ancient  governors  hold  their  broidered  state,— 
Still  gleam  the  lights,  the  shadows  come  and  go ; 
Here  once  again  the  powdered  guests  carouse, 
The  masquerade  lasts  on,  the  night  is  late. 

Thrice  waves  a  mist-invoking  wand,  and  lo, 
What  troubled  sights  !   What  summit  bald  and  steep 

Where  stands  a  ladder  'gainst  the  accursed  tree? 
What  dark  processions  thither  slowly  climb  ? 

Anon,  what  lost  ones  keep 
Their  midnight  tryst  with  forms  that  evil  be, 
Around  the  witch-fire  in  the  forest  grim ! 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Clearly  the  master's  plan 
Revealed  his  people,  even  as  they  were, 

The  prayerful  elder  and  the  winsome  maid, 
The  errant  roisterer,  the  Puritan, 
Dark  Pyncheon,  mournful  Hester, —  all  are  there. 

But  none  save  he  in  our  own  time  so  laid 
His  summons  on  man's  spirit ;  none  but  he, 

Whether  the  light  thereof  were  clear  or  clouded, 
Thus  on  his  canvas  fixed  the  human  soul, 

The  thoughts  of  mystery, 
In  deep  hearts  by  this  mortal  guise  enshrouded, 

Wild    hearts   that   like   the   church-bells   ring   and 
toll. 

Two  natures  in  him  strove 

Like  day  with  night,  his  sunshine  and  his  gloom. 
To  him  the  stern  forefathers'  creed  descended, 
The  weight  of  some  inexorable  Jove 
Prejudging  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb  ; 

But  therewithal  the  lightsome  laughter  blended 
Of  that  Arcadian  sweetness  undismayed 

Which  finds  in  Love  its  law,  and  graces  still 
The  rood,  the  penitential  symbol  worn,— 

Which  sees,  beyond  the  shade, 
The  Naiad  nymph  of  every  rippling  rill, 

And  hears  quick  Fancy  wind  her  wilful  horn. 

What  if  he  brooded  long 
On  Time  and  Fate, —  the  ominous  progression 

Of  years  that  with  Man's  retributions  frown,  — 
The  destinies  which  round  his  footsteps  throng, — 
Justice,  that  heeds  not  Mercy's  intercession, — 

Crime,  on  its  own  head  calling  vengeance  down, — 
Deaf  Chance  and  blind,  that,  like  the  mountain-slide 

Puts  out  Youth's  heart  of  fire  and  all  is  dark  ! 
What  though  the  blemish  which,  in  aught  of  earth, 
The  maker's  hand  defied, 
1 88 


HAWTHORNE 

Was  plain  to  him,  —  the  one  evasive  mark 

Wherewith  Death  stamps  us  for  his  own  at  birth  ! 

Ah,  none  the  less  we  know 
He  felt  the  imperceptible  fine  thrill 

With  which  the  waves  of  being  palpitate, 
Whether  in  ecstasy  of  joy  or  woe, 
And  saw  the  strong  divinity  of  Will 

Bringing  to  halt  the  stolid  tramp  of  Fate ; 
Nor  from  his  work  was  ever  absent  quite 

The  presence  which,  o'ercast  it  as  we  may, 
Things  far  beyond  our  reason  can  suggest : 

There  was  a  drifting  light 
In  Donatello's  cell,  —  a  fitful  ray 

Of  sunshine  came  to  hapless  Clifford's  breast. 

Into  such  blossom  brake 
Our  northern  hedge,  that  neither  mortal  sadness 

Nor  the  drear  thought  of  lives  that  strive  and  fail, 
Nor  any  hues  its  sombre  leaves  might  take 
From  clouded  skies,  could  overcome  its  gladness 

Or  in  the  blessing  of  its  shade  prevail. 
Fresh  sprays  it  yielded  them  of  Merry  Mount 

For  wedding  wreaths ;  blithe  Phoebe  with  the  sweet 
Pure  flowers  her  promise  to  her  lover  gave : 

Beside  it,  from  a  fount 

Where  Pearl  and  Pansie  plashed  their  innocent  feet, 
A  brook  ran  on  and  kissed  Zenobia's  grave. 

Silent  and  dark  the  spell 
Laid  on  New  England  by  the  frozen  North  ; 

Long,  long  the  months,  —  and  yet  the  Winter  ends, 
The  snow-wraiths  vanish,  and  rejoicing  well 
The  dandelions  from  the  grass  leap  forth, 

And  Spring  through  budding  birch  and  willow  sends 
Her  wind  of  Paradise.    And  there  are  left 
Poets  to  sing  of  all,  and  welcome  still 
189 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

The  robin's  voice,  the  humble-bee's  wise  drone ; 

Nor  are  we  yet  bereft 
Of  one  whose  sagas  ever  at  his  will 

Can  answer  back  the  ocean,  tone  for  tone. 

But  he  whose  quickened  eye 
Saw  through  New  England's  life  her  inmost  spirit, — 

Her  heart,  and  all  the  stays  on  which  it  leant, — 
Returns  not,  since  he  laid  the  pencil  by 
Whose  mystic  touch  none  other  shall  inherit ! 

What  though  its  work  unfinished  lies  ?    Half-bent 
The  rainbow's  arch  fades  out  in  upper  air; 

The  shining  cataract  half-way  down  the  height 
Breaks  into  mist ;  the  haunting  strain,  that  fell 

On  listeners  unaware, 

Ends  incomplete,  but  through  the  starry  night 
The  ear  still  waits  for  what  it  did  not  tell. 


AD    VATEM 

WHITTIER  !  the  Land  that  loves  thee,  she  whose  child 
Thou  art,  —  and  whose  uplifted  hands  thou  long 
Hast  stayed  with  song  availing  like  a  prayer,  — 
She  feels  a  sudden  pang,  who  gave  thee  birth 
And  gave  to  thee  the  lineaments  supreme 
Of  her  own  freedom,  that  she  could  not  make 
Thy  tissues  all  immortal,  or,  if  to  change, 
To  bloom  through  years  coeval  with  her  own  ; 
So  that  no  touch  of  age  nor  frost  of  time 
Should  wither  thee,  nor  furrow  thy  dear  face, 
Nor  fleck  thy  hair  with  silver.    Ay,  she  feels 
A  double  pang  that  thee,  with  each  new  year, 
Glad  Youth  may  not  revisit,  like  the  Spring 
That  routs  her  northern  Winter  and  anew 
Melts  off  the*  hoar  snow  from  her  puissant  hills. 
She  could  not  make  thee  deathless ;  no,  but  thou, 
190 


AD    VATEM 

Thou  sangest  her  always  in  abiding  verse 

And  hast  thy  fame  immortal  —  as  we  say 

Immortal  in  this  Earth  that  yet  must  die, 

And  in  this  land  now  fairest  and  most  young 

Of  all  fair  lands  that  yet  must  perish  with  it. 

Thy  words  shall  last :   albeit  thou  growest  old, 

Men  say ;  but  never  old  the  poet's  soul 

Becomes ;   only  its  covering  takes  on 

A  reverend  splendor,  as  in  the  misty  fall 

Thine  own  auroral  forests,  ere  at  last 

Passes  the  spirit  of  the  wooded  dell. 

And  stay  thou  with  us  long;   vouchsafe  us  long 

This  brave  autumnal  presence,  ere  the  hues 

Slow  fading,  —  ere  the  quaver  of  thy  voice, 

The  twilight  of  thine  eye,  move  men  to  ask 

Where  hides  the  chariot,  —  in  what  sunset  vale, 

Beyond  thy  chosen  river,  champ  the  steeds 

That  wait  to  bear  thee  skyward  ?    Since  we  too 

Would  feign  thee,  in  our  tenderness,  to  be 

Inviolate,  excepted  from  thy  kind, 

And  that  our  bard  and  prophet  best-beloved 

Shall  vanish  like  that  other :  him  that  stood 

Undaunted  in  the  pleasure-house  of  kings, 

And  unto  kings  and  crowned  harlots  spake 

God's  truth  and  judgment.    At  his  sacred  feet 

Far  followed  all  the  lesser  men  of  old 

Whose  lips  were  touched  with  fire,  and  caught  from  him 

The  gift  of  prophecy ;  and  thus  from  thee, 

Whittier,  the  younger  singers, — whom  thou  seest 

Each  emulous  to  be  thy  staff  this  day, — 

What  learned  they  ?  righteous  anger,  burning  scorn 

Of  the  oppressor,  love  to  humankind, 

Sweet  fealty  to  country  and  to  home, 

Peace,  stainless  purity,  high  thoughts  of  heaven, 

And  the  clear,  natural  music  of  thy  song. 


191 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 


AD    VIGILEM 

WHAT  seest  thou,  where  the  peaks  about  thee  stand, 
Far  up  the  ridge  that  severs  from  our  view 
That  realm  unvisited  ?  What  prospect  new 

Holds  thy  rapt  eye  ?   What  glories  of  the  land, 

Which  from  yon  loftier  cliff  thou  now  hast  scanned, 
Upon  thy  visage  set  their  lustrous  hue  ? 
Speak,  and  interpret  still,  O  Watchman  true, 

The  signals  answering  thy  lifted  hand  ! 

And  bide  thee  yet !  still  linger,  ere  thy  feet 

To  sainted  bards  that  beckon  bear  thee  down  — 

Though  lilies,  asphodel,  and  spikenard  sweet 
Await  thy  tread  to  blossom  ;  and  the  crown 

Long  since  is  woven  of  Heaven's  palm-leaves,  meet 
For  him  whom  Earth  can  lend  no  more  renown. 

Whittier's  Eightieth  Birthday, 
December  17,  1887. 


"ERGO    IRIS" 

WEARY  at  length  of  the  ancestral  gloom, 

The  self-same  drone,  the  patter  of  dull  pens, 
Nature  sent  Iris  of  the  rosy  plume, 

Bearing  to  Holmes  her  wonder-working  lens  ; 
Grateful,  he  gave  his  dearest  child  her  name, 

Lit  the  shrewd  East  with  laughter,  love,  and  tears, 
Bade  halt  the  sun  —  and  arching  into  fame 

His  rainbowed  fancy  now  the  world  enspheres. 

On  his  Eightieth  Birthday, 
August  29,  1889. 


I92 


GEORGE   ARNOLD 
GEORGE   ARNOLD 

GREENWOOD,  NOVEMBER   13,    1865 

WE  stood  around  the  dreamless  form 

Whose  strength  was  so  untimely  shaken," 

Whose  sleep  not  all  our  love  could  warm, 
Nor  any  dearest  voice  awaken ; 

And  while  the  Autumn  breathed  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  a  thousand  leafy  glories, 

And  all  the  pathways,  and  the  skies, 
Were  mindful  of  his  songs  and  stories, 

Nor  failed  to  wear  the  mingled  hues 
He  loved,  and  knew  so  well  to  render, 

But  wooed  —  alas,  in  vain  !  —  their  Muse 
For  one  more  tuneful  lay  and  tender, 

We  paused  awhile,  —  the  gathered  few 
Who  came,  in  longing,  not  in  duty, — 

With  eyes  that  full  of  weeping  grew, 
To  look  their  last  upon  his  beauty. 

Death  would  not  rudely  rob  that  face, 
Nor  dim  its  fine  Arcadian  brightness, 

But  gave  the  lines  a  clearer  grace, 

And  sleep's  repose,  and  marble's  whiteness. 

And,  gazing  there  on  him  so  young, 
We  thought  of  all  his  ended  mission, 

The  broken  links,  the  songs  unsung, 
The  love  that  found  no  ripe  fruition ; 

Till  last  the  old,  old  question  came 

To  hearts  that  beat  with  life  around  him, 
193 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Why  Death,  with  downward  torch  aflame, 
Had  searched  our  number  till  he  found  him  ? 

Why  passed  the  one  who  poorly  knows 
That  blithesome  spell  for  either  fortune, 

Or  mocked  with  lingering  menace  those 
Whose  pains  the  final  thrust  importune ; 

Or  left  the  toiling  ones  who  bear 

The  crowd's  neglect,  the  want  that  presses, 
The  woes  no  human  soul  can  share, 

Nor  look,  nor  spoken  word,  confesses. 

And  from  the  earth  no  answer  came, 

The  forest  wore  a  stillness  deeper, 
The  sky  and  lake  smiled  on  the  same, 

And  voiceless  as  the  silent  sleeper. 

And  so  we  turned  ourselves  away, 
By  earth  and  air  and  water  chidden, 

And  left  him  with  them,  where  he  lay, 
A  sharer  of  their  secret  hidden. 

And  each  the  staff  and  shell  again 

Took  up,  and  marched  with  memories  haunted  ; 
But  henceforth,  in  our  pilgrim-strain, 

We  '11  miss  a  voice  that  sweetly  chaunted  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

How  was  it  then  with  Nature  when  the  soul 

Of  her  own  poet  heard  a  voice  which  came 
From  out  the  void,  "  Thou  art  no  longer  lent 
To  Earth  !  "  when  that  incarnate  spirit,  blent 
With  the  abiding  force  of  waves  that  roll, 

Wind-cradled  vapors,  circling  stars  that  flame, 
194 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

She  did  recall  ?      How  went 
His  antique  shade,  beaconed  upon  its  way 
Through  the  still  aisles  of  night  to  universal  day  ? 

Her  voice  it  was,  her  sovereign  voice,  which  bade 

The  Earth  resolve  his  elemental  mould; 
And  once  more  came  her  summons:   "  Long,  too  long, 
Thou  lingerest,  and  charmest  with  thy  song ! 
Return  /  return  !  "    Thus  Nature  spoke,  and  made 
Her  sign;  and  forthwith  on  the  minstrel  old 

An  arrow,  bright  and  strong, 
Fell  from  the  bent  bow  of  the  answering  Sun, 
Who  cried,  uThe  song  is  closed,  the  invocation  donef 

But  not  as  for  those  youths  dead  ere  their  prime, 
New-entered  on  their  music's  high  domain, 

Then  snatched  away,  did  all  things  sorrow  own  : 

No  utterance  now  like  that  sad  sweetest  tone 

When  Bion  died,  and  the  Sicilian  rhyme 

Bewailed;   no  sobbing  of  the  reeds  that  plain 
Rehearsing  some  last  moan 

Of  Lycidas;   no  strains  which  skyward  swell 

For  Adonais  still,  and  still  for  Asphodel  ! 

The  Muses  wept  not  for  him  as  for  those 

Of  whom  each  vanished  like  a  beauteous  star 

Quenched  ere  the  shining  midwatch  of  the  night; 

The  greenwood  Nymphs  mourned  not  his  lost  delight; 

Nor  Echo,  hidden  in  the  tangled  close, 

Grieved  that  she  could  not  mimic  him  afar. 
He  ceased  not  from  our  sight 

Like  him  who,  in  the  first  glad  flight  of  spring, 

Fell  as  an  eagle  pierced  with  shafts  from  his  own  wing. 

This  was  not  Thyrsis  !   no,  the  minstrel  lone 

And  reverend,  the  woodland  singer  hoar, 
Who  was  dear  Nature's  nursling,  and  the  priest 
'95 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Whom  most  she  loved;  nor  had  his  office  ceased 
But  for  her  mandate :  "  Seek  again  thine  own ; 

The  walks  of  men  shall  draw  thy  steps  no  more !  " 

Softly,  as  from  a  feast 
The  guest  departs  that  hears  a  low  recall, 
He  went,  and  left  behind  his  harp  and  coronal. 

"  Return  !  "  she  cried,  "  unto  thine  own  return  ! 

Too  long  the  pilgrimage;  too  long  the  dream 
In  which,  lest  thou  shouldst  be  companionless, 
Unto  the  oracles  thou  hadst  access, — 
The  sacred  groves  that  with  my  presence  yearn." 
The  voice  was  heard  by  mountain,  dell,  and  stream, 

Meadow  and  wilderness  — 
All  fair  things  vestured  by  the  changing  year, 
Which  now  awoke  in  joy  to  welcome  one  most  dear. 

"  He  comes  !  "  declared  the  unseen  ones  that  haunt 

The  dark  recesses,  the  infinitude 
Of  whispering  old  oaks  and  soughing  pines. 
"  He  comes  !  "  the  warders  of  the  forest  shrines 
Sang  joyously.    "  His  spirit  ministrant 

Henceforth  with  us  shall  walk  the  underwood, 

Till  mortal  ear  divines 
Its  music  added  to  our  choral  hymn, 
Rising  and  falling  far  through  archways  deep  and  dim  ! ' 

The  orchard  fields,  the  hillside  pastures  green, 
Put  gladness  on;  the  rippling  harvest-wave 
Ran  like  a  smile,  as  if  a  moment  there 
His  shadow  poised  in  the  midsummer  air 
Above;  the  cataract  took  a  pearly  sheen 
Even  as  it  leapt;   the  winding  river  gave 

A  sound  of  welcome  where 
He  came,  and  trembled,  far  as  to  the  sea 
It  moves  from  rock-ribbed  heights  where  its  dark  fountains 
be. 

196 


THE    DEATH    OF    BRYANT 

His  presence  brooded  on  the  rolling  plain, 

And  on  the  lake  there  fell  a  sudden  calm,  — 
His  own  tranquillity;  the  mountain  bowed 
Its  head,  and  felt  the  coolness  of  a  cloud, 
And  murmured,  "  He  is  passing  !  "  and  again 

Through  all  its  firs  the  wind  swept  like  a  psalm ; 

Its  eagles,  thunder-browed, 

In  that  mist-moulded  shape  their  kinsmen  knew, 
And  circled  high,  and  in  his  mantle  soared  from  view. 

So  drew  he  to  the  living  veil,  which  hung 
Of  old  above  the  deep's  unimaged  face, 
And  sought  his  own.      Henceforward  he  is  free 
Of  vassalage  to  that  mortality 
Which  men  have  given  a  sepulchre  among 
The  pathways  of  their  kind,  —  a  resting-place 

Where,  bending  one  great  knee, 
Knelt  the  proud  mother  of  a  mighty  land 
In  tenderness,  and  came  anon  a  plumed  band. 

Came  one  by  one  the  seasons  meetly  drest, 

To  sentinel  the  relics  of  their  seer. 
First  Spring  —  upon  whose  head  a  wreath  was  set 
Of  wind-flowers  and  the  yellow-violet  — 
Advanced.    Then  Summer  led  his  loveliest 

Of  months,  one  ever  to  the  minstrel  dear, 

(Her  sweet  eyes  dewy  wet,) 

June,  and  her  sisters,  whose  brown  hands  entwine 
The  brier-rose  and  the  bee-haunted  columbine. 

Next,  Autumn,  like  a  monarch  sad  of  heart, 
Came,  tended  by  his  melancholy  days. 

Purple  he  wore,  and  bore  a  golden  rod, 

His  sceptre;  and  let  fall  upon  the  sod 

A  lone  fringed-gentian  ere  he  would  depart. 

Scarce  had  his  train  gone  darkling  down  the  ways 
When  Winter  thither  trod,  — 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Winter,  with  beard  and  raiment  blown  before, 
That  was  so  seeming  like  our  poet  old  and  hoar. 

What  forms  are  these  amid  the  pageant  fair, 

Harping  with  hands  that  falter?    What  sad  throng? 

They  wait  in  vain,  a  mournful  brotherhood, 

And  listen  where  their  laurelled  elder  stood 

For  some  last  music  fallen  through  the  air. 

"  What  cold,  thin  atmosphere  now  hears  thy  song  ?  " 
They  ask,  and  long  have  wooed 

The  woods  and  waves  that  knew  him,  but  can  learn 

Naught  save  the  hollow,  haunting  cry,  "  Return  !  return  !  " 
1878. 

w.  w. 

GOOD-BYE,  Walt ! 

Good-bye,  from  all  you  loved  of  earth  — 
Rock,  tree,  dumb  creature,  man  and  woman  — 
To  you,  their  comrade  human. 

The  last  assault 

Ends  now ;  and  now  in  some  great  world  has  birth 
A  minstrel,  whose  strong  soul  finds  broader  wings, 

More  brave  imaginings. 

Stars  crown  the  hilltop  where  your  dust  shall  lie, 
Even  as  we  say  good-bye, 
Good-bye,  old  Walt ! 

Lines  sent  to  his  funeral 
with  an  ivy  wreath, 

March  30,  1892. 


BYRON 

A  HUNDRED  years,  't  is  writ,  —  O  presage  vain  !  — 
Earth  wills  her  offspring  life,  ere  one  complete 

His  term,  and  rest  from  travail,  and  be  fain 
To  lay  him  down  in  natural  death  and  sweet. 
198 


BYRON 

What  of  her  child  whose  swift  divining  soul 
With  triple  fervor  burns  the  torch  apace, 

And  in  one  radiant  third  compacts  the  whole 
Ethereal  flame  that  lights  him  on  his  race  ? 

Ay,  what  of  him  who  to  the  winds  upheld 

A  star-like  brand,  with  pride  and  joy  and  tears, 

And  lived  in  that  fleet  course  from  youth  to  eld, 
Count  them  who  will,  his  century  of  years  ? 

The  Power  that  arches  heaven's  orbway  round 
Gave  to  this  planet's  brood  its  soul  of  fire, 

Its  heart  of  passion,  —  and  for  life  unbound 
By  chain  or  creed  the  measureless  desire  ; 

Gave  to  one  poet  these,  and  manifold 

High  thoughts,  beyond  our  lesser  mortal  share, — 
Gave  dreams  of  beauty,  yes,  and  with  a  mould 

The  antique  world  had  worshipped  made  him  fair; 

Then  touched  his  lips  with  music,  —  lit  his  brow, 

Even  as  a  fane  upon  a  sunward  hill, 
For  strength,  gave  scorn,  the  pride  that  would  not  bow, 

The  glorious  weapon  of  a  dauntless  will. 

But  that  the  surcharged  spirit  —  a  vapor  pent 
In  beetling  crags  —  a  torrent  barriered  long  — 

A  wind  'gainst  heaven's  four  winds  imminent  — 
Might  memorably  vent  its  noble  song, 

Each  soaring  gift  was  fretted  with  a  band 

That  deadlier  clung  which  way  he  fain  would  press : 

His  were  an  adverse  age,  a  sordid  land, 
Gauging  his  heart  by  their  own  littleness  ; 

Blind  guides !  the  fiery  spirit  scorned  their  curb, 
And  Byron's  love  and  gladness,  —  such  the  wise 
199 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Of  ministrants  whom  evil  times  perturb,— 

To  wrath  and  melancholy  changed  their  guise. 

Yet  this  was  he  whose  swift  imaginings 
Engirt  fair  Liberty  from  clime  to  clime,— 

From  Alp  to  ocean  with  an  eagle's  wings 
Pursued  her  flight,  in  Harold's  lofty  rime. 

Where  the  mind's  freedom  was  not,  could  not  be, 
That  bigot  soil  he  rendered  to  disdain, 

And  sought,  like  Omar  in  his  revelry, 
At  least  the  semblance  of  a  joy  to  gain. 

Laughter  was  at  his  beck,  and  wisdom's  ruth 
Sore-learned  from  fierce  experiences  that  test 

Life's  masquerade,  the  carnival  of  youth, 

The  world  of  man.    Then  Folly  lost  her  zest, 

Yet  left  undimmed  (her  valediction  sung 
With  Juan's  smiles  and  tears)  his  natal  ray 

Of  genius  inextinguishably  young, — 

An  Eos  through  those  mists  proclaiming  day. 

How  then,  when  to  his  ear  came  Hellas'  cry, 
He  shred  the  garlands  of  the  wild  night's  feast, 

And  rose  a  chief,  to  lead  —  alas,  to  die 

And  leave  men  mourning  for  that  music  ceased  ! 

America  !    When  nations  for  thy  knell 
Listened,  one  prophet  oracled  thy  part : 

Now,  in  thy  morn  of  strength,  remember  well 
The  bard  whose  chant  foretold  thee  as  thou  art. 

Sky,  mount,  and  forest,  and  high-sounding  main, 
The  storm-cloud's  vortex,  splendor  of  the  day, 

Gloom  of  the  night, —  with  these  abide  his  strain, 
And  these  are  thine,  though  he  has  passed  away ; 

200 


ARIEL 

Their  elemental  force  had  roused  to  might 

Great  Nature's  child  in  this  her  realm  supreme, — 

From  their  commingling  he  had  guessed  aright 
The  plenitude  of  all  we  know  or  dream. 

Read  thou  aright  his  vision  and  his  song, 

That  this  enfranchised  spirit  of  the  spheres 
May  know  his  name  henceforth  shall  take  no  wrong, 

Outbroadening  still  yon  ocean  and  these  years  ! 
1888. 

ARIEL 

IN  MEMORY  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY,  BORN  ON  THE  FOURTH 
OF  AUGUST,  A.  D.   1792 

WERT  thou  on  earth  to-day,  immortal  one, 

How  wouldst  thou,  in  the  starlight  of  thine  eld, 
The  likeness  of  that  morntide  look  upon 

Which  men  beheld  ? 
How  might  it  move  thee,  imaged  in  time's  glass, 

As  when  the  tomb  has  kept 
Unchanged  the  face  of  one  who  slept 
Too  soon,  yet  moulders  not,  though  seasons  come  and  pass  ? 

Has  Death  a  wont  to  stay  the  soul  no  less  ? 

And  art  thou  still  what  SHELLEY  was  erewhile, — 
A  feeling  born  of  music's  restlessness  — 

A  child's  swift  smile 
Between  its  sobs  —  a  wandering  mist  that  rose 

At  dawn — a  cloud  that  hung 
The  Euganean  hills  among; 
Thy  voice,  a  wind-harp's  strain  in  some  enchanted  close  ? 

Thyself  the  wild  west  wind,  O  boy  divine, 

Thou  fain  wouldst  be, —  the  spirit  which  in  its  breath 
Wooes  yet  the  seaward  ilex  and  the  pine 
That  wept  thy  death  ? 
201 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Or  art  thou  still  the  incarnate  child  of  song 

Who  gazed,  as  if  astray 
From  some  uncharted  stellar  way, 
With  eyes  of  wonder  at  our  world  of  grief  and  wrong  ? 

Yet  thou  wast  Nature's  prodigal ;  the  last 

Unto  whose  lips  her  beauteous  mouth  she  bent 
An  instant,  ere  thy  kinsmen,  fading  fast, 

Their  lorn  way  went. 
What  though  the  faun  and  oread  had  fled  ? 

A.  tenantry  thine  own, 
Peopling  their  leafy  coverts  lone, 

With    thee    still    dwelt    as   when    sweet    Fancy   was   not 
dead ; 

Not  dead  as  now,  when  we  the  visionless, 
In  nature's  alchemy  more  woeful  wise, 
Say  that  no  thought  of  us  her  depths  possess,  — 

No  love,  her  skies. 
Not  ours  to  parley  with  the  whispering  June, 

The  genii  of  the  wood, 
The  shapes  that  lurk  in  solitude, 
The  cloud,  the  mounting  lark,  the  wan  and  waning  moon. 

For  thee  the  last  time  Hellas  tipped  her  hills 

With  beauty ;  India  breathed  her  midnight  moan, 
Her  sigh,  her  ecstasy  of  passion's  thrills, 

To  thee  alone. 
Such  rapture  thine,  and  the  supremer  gift 

Which  can  the  minstrel  raise, 
Above  the  myrtle  and  the  bays, 
To  watch  the  sea  of  pain  whereon  our  galleys  drift. 

Therefrom  arose  with  thee  that  lyric  cry, 

Sad  cadence  of  the  disillusioned  soul 
That  asks  of  heaven  and  earth  its  destiny,  — 
Or  joy  or  dole. 
202 


ARIEL 

Wild  requiem  of  the  heart  whose  vibratings, 
With  laughter  fraught,  and  tears, 
Beat  through  the  century's  dying  years 
While  for  one  more  dark  round  the  old  Earth  plumes  her 
wings. 

No  answer  came  to  thee ;  from  ether  fell 

No  voice,  no  radiant  beam  ;  and  in  thy  youth 
How"  were  it  else,  when  still  the  oracle 

Withholds  its  truth  ? 
We  sit  in  judgment,  —  we,  above  thy  page 

Judge  thee  and  such  as  thee, 
Pale  heralds,  sped  too  soon  to  see 
The  marvels  of  our  late  yet  unanointed  age  ! 

The  slaves  of  air  and  light  obeyed  afar 

Thy  summons,  Ariel ;  their  elf-horns  wound 
Strange  notes  which  all  uncapturable  are 

Of  broken  sound. 
That  music  thou  alone  couldst  rightly  hear 

(O  rare  impressionist !) 
And  mimic.    Therefore  still  we  list 
To  its  ethereal  fall  in  this  thy  cyclic  year. 

Be  then  the  poet's  poet  still !  for  none 

Of  them  whose  minstrelsy  the  stars  have  blessed 
Has  from  expression's  wonderland  so  won 

The  unexpressed, — 
So  wrought  the  charm  of  its  elusive  note 

On  us,  who  yearn  in  vain 
To  mock  the  paean  and  the  plain 
Of  tides  that  rise  and  fall  with  sweet  mysterious  rote. 

Was  it  not  well  that  the  prophetic  few, 
So  long  inheritors  of  that  high  verse, 
Dwelt  in  the  mount  alone,  and  haply  knew 
What  stars  rehearse  ? 
203 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

But  now  with  foolish  cry  the  multitude 

Awards  at  last  the  throne, 
And  claims  thy  cloudland  for  its  own 
With  voices  all  untuned  to  thy  melodious  mood. 

What  joy  it  was  to  haunt  some  antique  shade 
Lone  as  thine  echo,  and  to  wreak  my  youth 
Upon  thy  song,  —  to  feel  the  throbs  which  made 

Thy  bliss,  thy  ruth,— 
And  thrill  I  knew  not  why,  and  dare  to  feel 

Myself  an  heir  unknown 

To  lands  the  poet  treads  alone 

Ere  to  his  soul  the  gods  their  presence  quite  reveal ! 

Even  then,  like  thee,  I  vowed  to  dedicate 

My  powers  to  beauty ;  ay,  but  thou  didst  keep 
The  vow,  whilst  I  knew  not  the  afterweight 

That  poets  weep, 
The  burthen  under  which  one  needs  must  bow, 

The  rude  years  envying 
My  voice  the  notes  it  fain  would  sing 
For  men  belike  to  hear,  as  still  they  hear  thee  now. 

Oh,  the  swift  wind,  the  unrelenting  sea  ! 

They  loved  thee,  yet  they  lured  thee  unaware 
To  be  their  spoil,  lest  alien  skies  to  thee 

Should  seem  more  fair ; 
They  had  their  will  of  thee,  yet  aye  forlorn 
Mourned  the  lithe  soul's  escape, 
And  gave  the  strand  thy  mortal  shape 
To  be  resolved  in  flame  whereof  its  life  was  born. 

Afloat  on  tropic  waves,  I  yield  once  more 

In  age  that  heart  of  youth  unto  thy  spell. 
The  century  wanes  :  thy  voice  thrills  as  of  yore 
When  first  it  fell. 


204 


GIFFORD 

Would  that  I  too,  so  had  I  sung  a  lay 
The  least  upborne  of  thine, 
Had  shared  thy  pain  !    Not  so  divine 
Our  light,  as  faith  to  chant  the  far  auroral  day. 

ON  THE  CARIBBEAN  SEA 
(Revisited  1892). 


GIFFORD 


THE   CLOSED   STUDIO 

THIS  was  a  magician's  cell : 
Beauty's  self  obeyed  his  spell ! 
When  the  air  was  gloom  without, 
Grace  and  Color  played  about 
Yonder  easel.    Many  a  sprite, 
Golden-winged  with  heaven's  light, 
Let  the  upper  skies  go  drear, 
Spreading  his  rare  plumage  here. 

Skyward  now, —  alas  the  day  !  — 
See  the  truant  Ariels  play  ! 
Cloud  and  air  with  light  they  fill, 
Wandering  at  idle  will, 
Nor  (with  half  their  tasks  undone) 
Stay  to  mourn  the  master  gone. 
Only  in  this  hollow  room, 
Now,  the  stillness  and  the  gloom. 

II 

OF   WINTER    NIGHTS 

WHEN  the  long  nights  return,  and  find  us  met 
Where  he  was  wont  to  meet  us,  and  the  flame 

205 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

On  the  deep  hearth-stone  gladdens  as  of  old, 
And  there  is  cheer,  as  ever  in  that  place, 
How  shall  our  utmost  nearing  close  the  gap 
Known,  but  till  then  scarce  measured  ?    Or  what  light 
Of  cheer  for  us,  his  gracious  presence  gone, 
His  speech  delayed,  till  none  shall  fail  to  miss 
That  halting  voice,  yet  sure,  speaking,  it  seemed 
The  one  apt  word  ?    For  well  the  painter  knew 
Art's  alchemy  and  law ;  her  nobleness 
Was  in  his  soul,  her  wisdom  in  his  speech, 
And  loyalty  was  housed  in  that  true  heart, 
Gentle  yet  strong,  and  yielding  not  one  whit 
Of  right  or  purpose.    Now,  not  more  afar 
The  light  of  last  year's  Yule  fire  than  the  smile 
Of  Gifford,  nor  more  irreclaimable 
Its  vapor  mingled  with  the  wintry  air. 
1880. 

J.  G.  H. 

Multis  ille  bonis  flebilis  occidit. 

HOR.,  Carm.  i,  24. 

WHO  knew  him,  loved  him.   His  the  longing  heart 
For  what  his  youth  had  missed,  his  manhood  known, — 
The  haunts  of  Song,  the  fellowship  of  Art,  — 
And  all  their  kin  he  strove  to  make  his  own. 

But  his  the  good,  true  heart  not  thus  content : 
The  words  that  fireside  groups  at  eve  repeat 
He  spoke,  or  sang ;  and  far  his  sayings  went, 
And  simple  households  found  his  music  sweet. 

So  Heaven  was  kind  and  gave  him  naught  to  grieve. 
Among  his  loved  he  woke  at  morn  from  rest, — 
One  smile  —  one  pang  —  and  gained  betimes  his  leave, 
Ere  Strength  had  lost  its  use,  or  Life  its  zest. 

1881. 

206 


THE    DEATH    OF    AN    INVINCIBLE   SOLDIER 

ON    A   GREAT    MAN    WHOSE    MIND   IS 
CLOUDING 

THAT  sovereign  thought  obscured  ?  That  vision  clear 
Dimmed  in  the  shadow  of  the  sable  wing, 
And  fainter  grown  the  fine  interpreting 

Which  as  an  oracle  was  ours  to  hear ! 

Nay,  but  the  Gods  reclaim  not  from  the  seer 
Their  gift,  —  although  he  ceases  here  to  sing, 
And,  like  the  antique  sage,  a  covering 

Draws  round  his  head,  knowing  what  change  is  near. 
1881. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF   AN    INVINCIBLE 
SOLDIER 

O  WHAT  a  sore  campaign, 
Of  which  men  long  shall  tell, 

Ended  when  he  was  slain  — 
When  this  our  greatest  fell  ! 

For  him  no  mould  had  cast 

A  bullet  surely  sped ; 
No  falchion,  welded  fast, 

His  iron  blood  had  shed. 

Death  on  the  hundredth  field 

Had  failed  to  bring  him  low ; 
He  was  not  born  to  yield 

To  might  of  mortal  foe. 

Even  to  himself  unknown, 

He  bore  the  fated  sword, 
Forged  somewhere  near  His  throne 

Of  battles  still  the  Lord. 

207 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

That  weapon  when  he  drew, 

Back  rolled  the  wrath  of  men,  — 

Their  onset  feebler  grew, 
The  Nation  rose  again. 

The  splendor  and  the  fame  — 

Whisper  of  these  alone, 
Nor  say  that  round  his  name 

A  moment's  shade  was  thrown ; 

Count  not  each  satellite 

'Twixt  him  and  glory's  sun, 

The  circling  things  of  night ; 
Number  his  battles  won. 

Where  then  to  choose  his  grave  ? 

From  mountain  unto  sea, 
The  Land  he  fought  to  save 

His  sepulchre  shall  be. 

Yet  to  its  fruitful  earth 

His  quickening  ashes  lend, 

That  chieftains  may  have  birth, 
And  patriots  without  end. 

His  carven  scroll  shall  read  : 
Here  rests  the  valiant  heart 

Whose  duty  was  his  creed,  — 
Whose  lot,  the  warrior's  part. 

Who,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
The  grim  last  foe  defied, 

Naught  knew  save  victory  won, 

Surrendered  not  —  but  died. 
1885. 

208 


LIBERTY   ENLIGHTENING   THE   WORLD 

LIBERTY   ENLIGHTENING   THE 
WORLD 

WARDER  at  ocean's  gate, 

Thy  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Like  one  the  skies  await 

When  time  shall  be  no  more ! 
What  splendors  crown  thy  brow  ? 
What  bright  dread  angel  Thou, 

Dazzling  the  waves  before 
Thy  station  great  ? 

"  My  name  is  Liberty  ! 

From  out  a  mighty  land 
I  face  the  ancient  sea, 

I  lift  to  God  my  hand ; 
By  day  in  Heaven's  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 
At  ocean's  gate  I  stand 
Nor  bend  the  knee. 

"  The  dark  Earth  lay  in  sleep, 

Her  children  crouched  forlorn, 
Ere  on  the  western  steep 

I  sprang  to  height,  reborn  : 
Then  what  a  joyous  shout 
The  quickened  lands  gave  out, 
And  all  the  choir  of  morn 
Sang  anthems  deep. 

"  Beneath  yon  firmament, 

The  New  World  to  the  Old 
My  sword  and  summons  sent, 

My  azure  flag  unrolled  : 
The  Old  World's  hands  renew 
Their  strength ;  the  form  ye  view 
209 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

Came  from  a  living  mould 
In  glory  blent. 

"  O  ye,  whose  broken  spars 

Tell  of  the  storms  ye  met, 
Enter !   fear  not  the  bars 

Across  your  pathway  set ; 
Enter  at  Freedom's  porch,. 
For  you  I  lift  my  torch, 
For  you  my  coronet 
Is  rayed  with  stars. 

"  But  ye  that  hither  draw 
To  desecrate  my  fee, 
Nor  yet  have  held  in  awe 

The  justice  that  makes  free,- 
Avaunt,  ye  darkling  brood  ! 
By  Right  my  house  hath  stood  : 
My  name  is  Liberty, 
My  throne  is  Law." 

O  wonderful  and  bright, 

Immortal  Freedom,  hail ! 
Front,  in  thy  fiery  might, 

The  midnight  and  the  gale; 
Undaunted  on  this  base 
Guard  well  thy  d  welling-place  : 
Till  the  last  sun  grow  pale 

Let  there  be  light ! 
1888. 

INSCRIPTIONS 


THAT  border  land  'twixt  Day  and  Night  be  mine, 
And  choice  companions  gathered  there  to  dine, 
With  talk,  song,  mirth,  soup,  salad,  bread,  and  wine. 

TWILIGHT  CLUB,  1883. 

2IO 


TO    BAYARD   TAYLOR 

ii 

AT  set  of  sun  one  lone  star  rules  the  skies, 
Night  spreads  a  feast  the  day's  long  toil  has  won : 
Eat,  drink,  —  enough,  no  more, —  and  speak,  ye  wise, 
Speak  —  but  enough,  no  more,  at  set  of  sun  ! 

SUNSET  CLUB,  1891. 

ON   WHITE    CARNATIONS   GIVEN 
ME    FOR    MY    BIRTHDAY 

EXQUISITE  tufts  of  perfume  and  of  light, 
Fair  gift  of  Summer  unto  Autumn  borne, 

Were  but  the  years  ye  calendar  as  white, 
As  sweet,  as  you,  Age  could  not  be  forlorn. 

Yet,  beauteous  symbols  of  my  only  gain  — 

Love,  portioned  from  your  givers'  envied  share, 

Honor,  whose  laurel  at  their  feet  hath  lain  — 
Make  me  this  night  of  Life's  waste  unaware  ! 

October  8,  1894. 

TO    BAYARD    TAYLOR 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  ILIAD 

BAYARD,  awaken  not  this  music  strong, 
While  round  thy  home  the  indolent  sweet  breeze 
Floats  lightly  as  the  summer  breath  of  seas 
O'er  which  Ulysses  heard  the  Sirens'  song. 
Dreams  of  low-lying  isles  to  June  belong, 
And  Circe  holds  us  in  her  haunts  of  ease; 
But  later,  when  these  high  ancestral  trees 
Are  sere,  and  such  melodious  languors  wrong 
The  reddening  strength  of  the  autumnal  year, 
Yield  to  heroic  words  thy  ear  and  eye ;  — 
211 


POEMS    OF   OCCASION 

Intent  on  these  broad  pages  thou  shalt  hear 
The  trumpets'  blare,  the  Argive  battle-cry, 
And  see  Achilles  hurl  his  hurtling  spear, 
And  mark  the  Trojan  arrows  make  reply  ! 


TO  W.  S. 

A  DREAD  voice  from  the  mountain  cried  to  me 
Even  as  I  woke  this  daybreak,  Thou  art  old  ! 

But  then  thy  swift  song  answered  dauntlessly, 

a  'T  is  Love,  not  age,  that  hath  thee  in  his  hold." 
O  minstrel  dear,  O  friend  with  heart  of  gold 

And  hand  so  leal,  and  voice  of  music  free, 

This  day  I  crest  with  thanks  each  billow  rolled 

To  Scotia's  shores  across  our  northern  Sea ! 

KELP  ROCK,  NEW  CASTLE,  N.  H. 
October  8,  1890. 


HYMN  OF  THE  WEST 

O  THOU,  whose  glorious  orbs  on  high 

Engird  the  earth  with  splendor  round, 
From  out  thy  secret  place  draw  nigh 
The  courts  and  temples  of  this  ground; 
Eternal  Light, 
Fill  with  thy  might 

These  domes  that  in  thy  purpose  grew, 
And  lift  a  nation's  heart  anew ! 

Illumine  Thou  each  pathway  here, 

To  show  the  marvels  God  hath  wrought ! 
Since  first  thy  people's  chief  and  seer 
Looked  up  with  that  prophetic  thought, 
Bade  Time  unroll 
The  fateful  scroll, 
212 


H.  VAN    D. 

And  empire  unto  Freedom  gave 
From  cloudland  height  to  tropic  wave. 

Poured  through  the  gateways  of  the  North 

Thy  mighty  rivers  join  their  tide, 
And,  on  the  wings  of  morn  sent  forth, 
Their  mists  the  far-off  peaks  divide. 
By  Thee  unsealed, 
The  mountains  yield 
Ores  that  the  wealth  of  Ophir  shame, 
And  gems  enwrought  of  seven-hued  flame. 

Lo,  through  what  years  the  soil  hath  lain 
At  thine  own  time  to  give  increase  — 
The  greater  and  the  lesser  grain, 

The  ripening  boll,  the  myriad  fleece! 
Thy  creatures  graze 
Appointed  ways; 

League  after  league  across  the  land 
The  ceaseless  herds  obey  thy  hand. 

Thou,  whose  high  archways  shine  most  clear 

Above  the  plenteous  Western  plain, 
Thine  ancient  tribes  from  round  the  sphere 
To  breathe  its  quickening  air  are  fain  : 
And  smiles  the  sun 
To  see  made  one 

Their  brood  throughout  Earth's  greenest  space, 
Land  of  the  new  and  lordlier  race  ! 

WORLD'S  FAIR,  ST.  Louis,  Mo.,  1904. 


H.  VAN  D. 

(A  TOAST) 

HEALTH  to  the  poet,  scholar,  wit,  divine, 
In  whom  sweet  Nature  would  all  gifts  combine 
213 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

To  make  us  hang  upon  his  lips  and  say  — 
The  Admirable  Crichton  of  our  day, 
Whose  quill  and  lute  and  voice  are  weapons  shear 
That  quite  outvie  that  gallant's  swift  rapier,  — 
Whose  dulcet  English,  from  its  font  that  wells, 
This  night,  the  Scotsman's  dozen  tongues  excels  ! 
Long  may  he  live,  to  wear  the  cloistral  gown, 
Or  from  his  Little  Rivers  bring  to  town  - 
From  every  haunt  where  purling  waters  flow- 
The  mystic  flower  that  only  votaries  know  ! 
Wouldst  view  what  Nature's  portraiture  is  like  ? 
The  Dame  herself  hath  sat  to  this  Van  Dyke. 

LOTOS  CLUB,  December  23,  1904. 


TO  DR.  WALDSTEIN 

ON  HIS  PROPOSAL  TO  EXCAVATE  HERCULANEUM  * 

YES,  Doctor,  surely  we  recall 

How  at  the  Louvre  you  chanced  to  score  so, - 
'T  was  there  you  found  against  some  wall 

The  head  that  matched  an  Elgin  torso  ! 
We  know  you  born  with  that  sixth  sense, 

The  presage  of  discoveries  mighty, 
Nor  like  —  unwitting  or  prepense  — 

To  land  a  made-up  Aphrodite. 

Speed  then,  I  pray,  lest  in  the  lurch 

You  leave  a  wistful  graybeard  mortal ; 
Begin  apace  your  classic  search 

Beyond  each  Herculaneum  portal ! 
Let  others  northward  seek  the  stem 

That  swings  this  planetary  apple, 
Whilst  you,  to  win  a  diadem 

More  worth,  with  Pluto's  self  must  grapple. 

1  Copyrighted  by  the  Bibliophile  Society  and  reprinted  by  permission. 
214 


TO    DR.   WALDSTEIN 

The  lettered  Roman  aired  his  Greek, 

Drew  forth  his  scrolls  from  shelf  and  panel, — 
(So  Gray  and  Walpole  knew  to  speak, 

To  read,  their  French  brought  over  Channel) ; 
Untomb  those  sealed  armaria  !    Let 

Your  hand  among  their  riches  wander, 
Until,  half-dazed,  your  eyes  are  set 

Upon  —  some  play  of  great  Menander! 

Byzantium's  Christian  priests,  they  say,   x 

With  those  rare  jestings  heaped  the  pyre ; 
Lest  ruthless,  grim  Vesuvius  may 

Restore  them  to  the  world's  desire. 
The  mask,  the  marble  and  the  bronze, 

The  eagle  from  Bellona's  eyrie,  — 
Light  trophies  these  to  him  who  cons, 

First  of  his  time,  those  lost  papyri, — 

Whose  sight  takes  in  at  last  complete 

The  lines  to  Sappho's  smile  and  tresses 
Alcaeus  wrote  —  yet  made  retreat 

In  awe,  as  he  himself  confesses,  — 
Or  ...  thought  to  wake  the  pulse's  thrill !  .  .  « 

Finds  but  one  ode,  all  fire  and  air, 
By  Her,  —  one  hymn  diviner  still 

Than  that  ecstatic  Lesbian  prayer. 

There's  Pindar, —  haply  from  the  mound 

You  '11  lift  a  six-and-fortieth  paean, 
Or,  blest  indeed,  disclose  thrice-crowned  — 

Ye  stars  !  —  a  trilogue  Sophoclean  ; 
Yet  his,  be  sure,  the  loftiest  meed 

Whose  spell  shall  split  the  Earth  with  wonder, 
And  bid  us  see  Prometheus  Freed, 

That  vanished  Titan,  loom  from  under. 


215 


POEMS    OF    OCCASION 

Within  some  niche  (once  overhung 

By  whose  sea-gazing  cool  pavilion  ?) 
Sleep  in  their  charm  forever  young 

What  idylls  of  the  sweet  Sicilian  ! 
Not  vain,  Theocritus,  our  dream, — 

Fresh  songs  of  Etna's  springs  and  grasses, 
Of  love-distracted  Polypheme, 

Of  streets  where  couched  Adonis  passes. 

What  Dialogues,  suppressed  by  Fate, 

Of  Plato's  metaphysic  rival, 
Perchance  in  durance  yet  await 

A  bimillennial  revival ; 
And  "  Hold  I  "  —  I  hear  Virgilians  say  - 

"  Was  there  no  Latin  then  imbedded  ? 
Slight  not  the  golden  verse,  we  pray, 

Of  bards  to  pure  Augustan  wedded." 

So,  Doctor,  plead  with  State  and  Throne, 
Adjure  each  latter-day  Maecenas ; 

Our  pence  and  plaudits  are  your  own,— 
Our  mandate  —  Frange  nunc  catenas  ! 

Such  vintage  give  the  world  to  quaff, 
Age-stored  beneath  its  tedious  rumble, 

And  many  a  laurelled  cenotaph 

Long  ere  your  name  dies  out  shall  crumble. 

March  10,  1905. 

JOHN    HAY 

FALL'N  like  an  eagle  from  his  scaur  — 

From  yon  clear  height  none  dared  to  soil ! 

Beats  on  that  noble  heart  no  more 
Above  the  warfare  and  the  spoil,  — 

The  poet-statesman's,  in  whose  thought 
Self  had  no  place  since  first  he  shared 
216 


HOMEWARD    BOUND 

The  work  his  boyhood's  chieftain  wrought, 
The  faith  which  life  nor  substance  spared  ? 

There  are  who  serve  their  Country  well 
Yet  stoop  to  crave  her  light  acclaim, — 

His  patriot  pulses  leapt  and  fell 
Nor  asked  the  glory  of  a  name. 

Love,  honor,  rose  to  him  indeed, 

As  vapors  toward  the  sunlit  sky, 
But  his  the  generous  heart,  at  need, 

Without  a  pang  to  put  them  by. 

Even  so,  a  white  star  on  his  crest, 
We  knew  him  in  his  stainless  youth  ; 

Even  so  —  not  else  than  loyalest  — 

The  world  his  manhood  learned  in  sooth ; 

And  if  there  be —  and  if  there  be 

A  realm  where  lives  still  forward  roll, 

Even  so  —  no  other  —  strong  and  free 

Through  time  and  space  shine  on,  dear  Soul ! 

July  I,  1905. 

HOMEWARD    BOUND 

ON  THE  RETURN  TO  AMERICA  OF  THE  REMAINS  OF  JOHN 
PAUL  JONES 

WITH  proud,  uplifted  head 
The  fair  Republic  claims  her  dead  ; 

With  outstretched  hands  —  the  hands  he  fought  to  free  — 
Awaits,  O  not  in  ruth, 
The  lover  of  her  youth, 
Her  Bayard  of  the  sea. 
Let  the  sea  once  more  caress  him 
And  the  Land  he  loved  possess  him, 
217 


POEMS    OF   OCCASION 

For  now  the  years  are  sped  — 
The  proud  Republic  claims  her  dead. 

Atlantic  waves,  that  smiled 
Of  old  so  oft  to  greet  your  child, 
List  not  to  hear  his  battle-orders  ring; 

Care  not  to  break  his  sleep, 

But  softly,  softly  bring 

Your  nursling  of  the  deep, 
With  his  birthright  flag  above  him, 
To  the  shores  that  own  and  love  him,  — - 

Of  old  their  rover  wild, 
Now  held  in  slumber  as  a  child. 

The  oaken  ship  that  won 
His  storied  sea-fight,  gun  to  gun, 
To  Freedom's  flag  its  red  baptism  gave, — 
Aflame,  still  made  reply, 
Fought  on  to  victory, 
Then  plunged  beneath  the  wave. 
Let  the  squadrons  close  around  him 
Till  the  nation's  hands  have  crowned  him 

Whose  fierce  sea-fight  he  won 
'Twixt  the  setting  and  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

Not  far  from  ocean's  strand, 
His  tomb,  made  lasting  by  her  hand, 
Shall  henceforth  tell  within  the  guarded  field 

Of  him  who  that  dread  night 

Began  anew  the  fight, 

And,  sinking,  could  not  yield. 
Down  the  lengthened  line  bequeath  it, 
Let  our  sailor  sons  enwreathe  it, 

And  the  challenge  and  command 
Be  heard  anear  it  and  the  strand. 


218 


MY   GODCHILD 

Erect,  with  shining  head, 
The  great  Republic  claims  her  dead ; 
Nor,  in  that  day  when  every  stripe  and  star 

Proclaims  the  reign  of  Peace, 

Shall  honor  to  him  cease 

Nor  Fame  his  laurel  mar. 
Though  no  battle-peal  awake  him, 
Time  upon  its  scroll  shall  make  him 

One  of  Earth's  heroes  dead 
Whose  deeds  that  golden  day  more  swiftly  sped. 

July  12,  1905. 

MY   GODCHILD 

(TO  R.  K.  P.  D.) 

ROSEMARY  !  could  we  give  you 

"  Remembrance/'  with  your  name, 
Ere  long  you  'd  tell  us  something 

Of  Heaven,  whence  you  came, — 
Of  those  enchanted  meadows 

Where,  through  the  ceaseless  day, 
The  children  waiting  to  be  born 

Wonder,  and  sing,  and  play, — 
And  where  you  wandered  carolling 

Until  the  angel's  hand 
Closed  down  your  eyes  —  then  opened  them 

To  light  this  earthly  Land, — 
This  Land  whereto  they  've  sent  you 

To  share  its  joy,  its  strife, 
Its  love,  and  learn  through  Womanhood 

How  rich,  how  deep,  is  Life. 
1906. 


219 


POEMS   OF   OCCASION 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  A 
HOUSE-BOOK 

(TO  MR.    AND  MRS.  W.  O.   P.) 

TRAILING  hemlock,  serried  spruce, 

Pine-tree,  staunch  and  bold, 

Still,  as  't  is  your  royal  use,  — 

Each  a  stately  seneschal,  — 

Guard  this  home  through  seasons  long 

From  summer's  heat    and  winter's  cold ! 

Fame  shall  gild  its  every  wall, 

Beauty  dwell  with  art  and  song, 

And  (of  all  life's  guerdons  best) 

Love  light  the  hearth — where  blessings  fall 

On  Master,  Mistress,  happy  Guest. 

BAR  HARBOR,  August  22,  1906. 

70°  NORTH 

(TO  H.  M.  A.) 

WHAT  's  this  !  your  tall  ship  sighted  at  the  Line  ? 

Some  three  degrees  I  'd  fain  sail  back  to  meet  you,  - 
But  orders  hold,  so  let  me  flash  this  sign 
Astern,  and  greet  you. 

You,  who  so  oft  have  hailed  me,  ship  to  ship, — 

A  cheery  consort  in  our  "  roaring  forties  "  ; 
Prithee,' to  whom  shall  not  my  ensigns  dip, 
If  he  your  sort  is  ? 

Long  on  your  desk  (long  in  that  "  Study"  chair  — 
To  change  the  metaphor),  dear  Alden,  still  be  ! 
The  sturdiest  master  that  was  ever  there, 
Or  ever  will  be. 

220 


7o°  NORTH 

I  mind  me  how  those  songs  which  bore  my  name 

Found  grace  with  you  —  those  cantilenas  parvae  — 
Yes,  even  my  Viking  (ere  his  namesake  came, 
And  bounteous  Harvey). 

"  H.  M.,"  Her  Majesty's  ?  No,  though  in  sooth 

Victorian  decades  somewhat  overlay  us, 
/  read,  with  that  braw  accent  of  our  youth, 
Henricus  Meus. 

For  am  I  not  of  them  who,  down  the  years 
Now  closed  in  Life's  inexorable  journal, 
Have  known  your  hand's  strong  grip  that  time  endears, 
Your  words  fraternal  ? 

Yet  knew  you  best,  and  last,  from  golden  books, 
The  rare  quintessence  of  your  mystic  spirit,— 
When  that  through  mortal  eyes  no  longer  looks 
May  mine  be  near  it ! 

November  10,  1906. 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 


(A  portion  of  the  Tenth  and  the  whole  of  the  Thirteenth  Idyls 
of  Theocritus  are  given  in  the  following  translations.  The  text  of 
"  Hylas  "  is  somewhat  in  dispute,  and  as  the  translator  has  examined 
various  editions,  his  versions  will  be  found  to  differ,  in  one  or  two 
places,  from  the  common  reading.  He  has  also,  with  good  authority, 
divided  the  alternate  songs  of  "The  Reapers"  into  the  couplets, 
which  so  exactly  balance  each  other,  and  which  are  approved  by 
critical  and  poetical  instinct.  The  English  hexameter  has  been  se 
lected  as  the  only  measure  adapted  to  a  literal  and  a  lineal  rendering 
of  the  peculiar  idyllic  verse.  These  specimens  of  the  Sicilian-Doric 
poetry,  including  a  pastoral,  and  a  semi-epic  theme,  are  from  a  ver 
sion  of  the  works  of  Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Moschus,  which  was 
begun  many  years  ago,  but  has  never  been  completed. ) 


THE    REAPERS 

MILO  AND  BATTUS 

MILO. 

BUT  come  now,  down  with  the  harvest  ! 
Strike  up  also,  I  pray,  a  sweetheart  song  of  the  maiden ; 
Thus  will  you  work  more  lightly  : —  I  think  you  used  to  be 
tuneful. 

BATTUS  (sings). 

"Sing  with  me,  O  Pierian  Muses,  the  lass  that  is  lissome; 
For  ye  make  all  things   fair,  whatever  ye  touch,  ye  Divine 
Ones! 

"  Graceful  Bombyce,  they  call  you  a  Syrian,  scrawny  and 

sunburnt,— 
All  but  me,  who  alone  pronounce  you  the  color  of  honey. 

"  Ay,  and  the  violet 's  dark,  and  the  hyacinth  wearing  its 
letters  : 

None  the  less,  for  all  that,  are  they  sorted  first  in  the  gar 
lands. 

"  She-goats  hunt  for  the  clover,  the  wolf  goes  after  the  she- 
goat, 

After  the  plough  the  crane,  —  but  I  Ve  gone  raving  for  you, 
love  ! 

"  Would  that  mine  were  as  much  as  Croesus,  they  say,  was 

possessed  of; 

Then  should  we  twain,  in  gold,  be  set  up  before  Aphrodite  ; 

225 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 

"You  with  a  —  yes,  with  a  flute,  and  a  rose,  or,  maybe,  an 

apple ; 
I,  with  new  Amyclaean  shoes,  and  a  robe  in  the  fashion. 

"  Graceful    Bombyce,   your   feet    are   pretty   as   dice   that 

twinkle ; 
Soft  is  your  voice  ;  but  your  manner,  —  I  have  no  words  to 

express  it  !  " 

MILO. 

Look  you,   the   lad   has   been  sly,  composing   us   elegant 

ditties  : 
See  how  well  he  has  measured  the  form  of  his  even  rhythm  ! 


O  this  beard  of  mine,  which  I  seem  to  have  grown  to  no 

purpose ! 
But,  to  go  on,  now  hear  these  words  of  the  sage  Lytierses  : 

(Sings.) 

"  O  Demeter,  abounding  in  fruit  and  ears  of  the  harvest, 
Well  may  this  field  be  worked  and  yield  a  crop  beyond 
measure  ! 

a  Hard,  bind  hard,  ye  binders,  the  sheaves,  lest  ever  a  passer 
Say,  *  These  men  are  poor  sticks,  and  their  pay  is  cash  out 
of  pocket/ 

"  Toward  the  north-wind  let  your  swath  of  grain  in  the 

cutting 
Look,  or  else  to  the  west,  for  thus  the  ear  will  grow  fuller. 

"  Threshers,  threshing  the  corn,  should  shun  the  slumbers 

of  noonday ; 
That  is  the  very  hour  when  the  chaff  flies  off  from  the 

wheat-stalk. 

226 


HYLAS 

"  Reapers,  begin  your  toil  when  the  tuft-lark  soars  from 

the  meadow : 
Cease  when  he  sleeps :   besides,  in  the  heat  of  the  day  take 

your  leisure. 

"  Give  me  a  frog's  life,  boys  !  he  needs,  to  pour  out  his  tipple, 
No  cup-bearer,  not  he,  for't  is  up  to  his  mouth  all  around 
him. 

"  Better  to  boil  the  lentil,  you  '11  find  it,  niggardly  steward  : 
Ware  lest  you  cut  your  hand  in   making  two  halves  of  a 
cummin." 

(Speaks.) 

Staves  like  these  't  is  fit  that  men  at  work  in  the  sunshine 
Troll ;  but,  lad,  't  were  better  to  prate  of  your  starveling 

passion 
Unto  your  mother  awake  in  her  bed  at  break  of  the  morning. 


HYLAS 

NOT  for  ourselves  alone  the  God,  who  fathered  that  stripling 
Eros,  begat  him,  Nicias,  as  we  have  flattered  us:  neither 
Unto  ourselves  the  first  have  beauties  seemed  to  be  beau 
ties,  — 

Not  unto  us,  who  are  mortal  and  do  not   foresee  the   mor 
row; 

But  that  heart  of  brass,  Amphitryon's  son,  who  awaited  5 
Stoutly  the  ruthless  lion,  he  too  was  fond  of  a  youth  once  — 
Graceful  HYLAS,  the  lad  with  the  curling  locks,  —  and  he 

taught  him 
All   fair  things,  as  a  father  would  teach   the  child  of  his 

bosom, 
All  which  himself  had  learned,  and  great  and  renowned  in 

song  grown ; 

Nor  was  he  ever  at  all   apart  from  him,  neither  at  mid 
day,  I0 
227 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 

Nor  when  the  white-horsed  car  of  Eos  ran   up  to  Zeus- 
ward,  — 
Nor  when  the  twittering  chickens  looked  to  their  nest,  and 

the  mother 

Over  her  smoky  perch  at  eve  had  fluttered  her  pinions, — 
So  might  the  lad  be  featly  trained  to  his  heart's  own  liking, 
And,  with  himself  for  guide,  grow  up  a  genuine  hero.        15 
Now  when  it  chanced  that  Jason,  the  son  of  ^Eson,  went 

sailing 
After  the    Golden    Fleece,  and    with   him    followed    the 

nobles, — 
Picked  from  all  the  towns  and  ripe   for  that  service, — 

among  them 

Also  to  rich  lolkos  came  the  laboring  hero, 
He  that  was  son  of  Alcmene, —  the  heroine  of  Midea  ;     20 
By  his  side  went  Hylas  down  to  the  bulwarked  Argo,— 
Which  good  ship  the  clashing  Cyanean  rocks  in  no  wise 
Touched,  but  clove  as  an   eagle,  —  and  so  ran  into  deep 

Phasis,  — 
Clove  through  a  mighty  surge,  whence  low  reefs  jutted  in 

those  days. 
So  at  the  time  when  the   Pleiads  rise,  —  and  out-of-way 

places  25 

Pasture  the  youngling  lamb,  and  Spring  has  turned,  - —  the 

immortal 

Flower  of  heroes  began  of  their  voyage  then  to  be  mindful, 
And,  having  sat  them  down  again  in  the  hollow  Argo, 
Came  to  the  Hellespont,  a  south  wind  blowing,  the  third 

day, 
And  within  the  Propontis  their  anchorage   made,  —  where 

oxen  30 

Broaden  Cianian   furrows   afield,  and  brighten  the  plough 
share. 
There  stepping  out  on  the  beach  they  got  the  meal  of  the 

evening, 
Two  by  two ;  and  many  were  strewing  a  couch  for  them 

all,  since 

228 


HYLAS 

Close  at  hand  lay  a   meadow,  —  to   furnish   sedge   for  the 

bedding : 
Thence  sharp   flowering-rush  and   low  galingale  they  cut 

them.  35 

And  with  a  brazen  ewer  the  fair-haired  Hylas  was  seeking 
Water,  for  HerakleY  supper  and  sturdy  Telamon's  also,— 
Comrades  twain,  that  ever  were  used  to  eat  at  one  table. 
Erelong,  too,  he  spied  a  spring  in  a  low-lying  hollow : 
Round  its  brim  there  grew  a  host  of  rushes,  and   dark-blue 
Celandine  rose,  and  pale-green  maiden-hair:  and  parsley    4i 
Throve,  and  the  witch-grass  tangling  wild  through  watery 

places. 
Now  the  Nymphs  were  starting  a  dance  in  the  midst  of  the 

fountain,— 

Sleepless  Nymphs,  divine,  to  country  people  a  terror, — 
Malis,   Euneica,   and   one   with   her    look   of  the   Spring, 

Nycheia.  45 

Soothly,  the  lad  was  holding  the  huge  jar  over  the  water, 
Dipping  in  haste,  when  one  and  all  grew  fast  to  his  hand 

there. 

Love  wound  close  around  the  gentle  hearts  of  the  bevy, 
Love  for  the  Argive  boy:  and  headlong  into  the  dark  pool 
Fell  he,  as  when  a  fiery  star  has  fallen  from  heaven  50 

Headlong  into  the  sea,  and  a  sailor  cries  to  his  shipmates : 
"  Loosen  the  tackle,  lads  !  —  O,  here  comes   a  wind   for 

sailing  I  " 
As   for  the  Nymphs,  they  held  on  their  knees  the  tearful 

stripling, 

And  with  their  kindly  words  were  fain  to  comfort  his  spirit. 
But   Amphitryon's   son,  alarmed   for  the  youth,   bestirred 

him,  .  55 

Taking  Scythian-wise  his  bended  bow  and  its  arrows, 
Also  the  club,  which  his   right  hand  ever  to  hold  was  ac 
customed. 

Thrice,  ay,  thrice  he  shouted  HYLAS  !  loud  as  his  deep  throat 
Could,  while  thrice  the  lad  heard  underneath,  and  a  thin 

voice 

229 


POEMS    OF   GREECE 

Came  from  the  wave,  and  O,  so  near  he  was,  yet  so  dis 
tant  !  60 

And  as  a  thick-maned  lion,  that  hears  a  whimpering  fawn  cry 

Far  away,  —  some  lion  that  munches  flesh  on  the  moun 
tains,  — 

Speeds  from  his  lair  to  a  meal  which  surely  waits  for  his 
coming, 

So,  through  untrodden  brambles,  Herakles,  craving  the  dear 
youth, 

Sped  in  tremor  and  scoured  great  reaches  this  way  and  that 
way.  65 

Reckless  are  they  who  love !  what  ills  he  suffered  while 
ranging 

Cliffs  and  thickets  !  and  light,  beside  this,  seemed  the  quest 
of  Jason. 

Mean  while  the  ship  lay  still,  with  her  tackle  hoisted  above  her, 

And,  —  of  those  present,  —  the  youth  were  clearing  the 
sails  at  midnight, 

Waiting  for  Herakles:  he,  wherever  his  feet  might  lead  him,  7o 

Wild  went  on,  for  a  cruel  god  was  tearing  his  heartstrings. 

Fairest  Hylas  is  numbered  thus  with  the  Happy  Immortals: 

Nathless  the  heroes  were  scoffing  at  Herakles  as  a  deserter, 

Since  he  had  fled  from  the  ship  of  the  thirty  benches,  from 
Argo. 

Onward  he  trudged  afoot  to  Colchis  and  welcomeless 
Phasis.  75 

I.   THE    DEATH    OF   AGAMEMNON 

FROM    HOMER 

[Odyssey,  XI,  385-456] 

ODYSSEUS    IN    HADES 

AFTERWARD,  soon  as  the  chaste  Persephone  hither  and 
thither  385 

Now  had  scattered  afar  the  slender  shades  of  the  women, 

230 


THE    DEATH    OF   AGAMEMNON 

Came  the  sorrowing  ghost  of  Agamemnon  Atreides ; 

Round  whom  thronged,  besides,  the  souls  of  the  others  who 
also 

Died,  and  met  their  fate,  with  him  in  the  house  of  Aigisthos. 

He,  then,  after  he  drank  of  the  dark  blood,  instantly  knew 
me,  —  390 

Ay,  and  he  wailed  aloud,  and  plenteous  tears  was  shedding, 

Toward  me  reaching  hands  and  eagerly  longing  to  touch 
me; 

But  he  was  shorn  of  strength,  nor  longer  came  at  his  bid 
ding 

That  great  force  which  once  abode  in  his  pliant  members. 

Seeing  him   thus,  I  wept,  and  my  heart   was   laden  with 

P^y.  395 

And,  uplifting  my  voice,  in  winged  words  I  addressed  him : 

"  King  of  men,  Agamemnon,  thou  glorious  son  of  Atreus, 

Say,  in  what  wise  did  the  doom  of  prostrate  death  overcome 

thee  ? 

Was  it  within  thy  ships  thou  wast  subdued  by  Poseidon 
Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of  winds  too  hard  to  be  mas 
tered,  400 
Or  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy  thee 
Cutting  their  oxen  off,  and  their  flocks  so  fair,  or,  it  may  be, 
While  in  a  town's  defence,  or  in  that  of  women,  contend 
ing  ?" 

Thus  I  spake, and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straightway: 
"  Nobly-born  and  wise  Odysseus,  son  of  Laertes,  405 

Neither  within  my  ships  was  I  subdued  by  Poseidon 
Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of  winds  too  hard  to  be  mastered, 
Nor  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy  me,  — 
Nay,  but  death  and  my  doom  were  well  contrived  by  Aigis 
thos, 

Who,  with  my  cursed  wife,  at  his  own  house  bidding  me 

welcome,  4IO 

Fed  me,  and   slew   me,  as  one   might  slay  an   ox  at  the 

manger ! 

So,  by  a  death  most  wretched,  I  died ;  and  all  my  companions 

231 


POEMS   OF    GREECE 

Round  me  were  slain  off-hand,  like  white-toothed  swine 

that  are  slaughtered 
Thus,  when  some  lordly   man,  abounding   in    power  and 

riches, 

Orders  a  wedding-feast,  or  a  frolic,  or  mighty  carousal.    4i5 
Thou  indeed  hast  witnessed  the   slaughter  of  numberless 

heroes 

Massacred,  one  by  one,  in  the  battle's  heat ;  but  with  pity 
All  thy  heart  had  been   full,  if  thou  hadst  seen  what  I  tell 

thee,— 

How  in  the  hall  we  lay  among  the  wine-jars,  and  under 
Tables  laden  with  food ;  and  how  the  pavement,  on  all 
sides,  420 

Swam  with  blood  !    And  I  heard  the  dolorous  cry  of  Kas- 

sandra, 
Priam's  daughter,  whom  treacherous   Klytaimnestra   anear 

me 

Slew ;  and  upon  the  ground  I  fell  in  my  death-throes,  vainly 
Reaching  out  hands  to  my  sword,  while  the  shameless  wo 
man  departed, 

Nor  did  she  even  stay  to  press  her  hands  on  my  eyelids,  425 
No,  nor  to  close  my  mouth,  although  I  was   passing  to 

Hades. 

O,  there  is  naught  more  dire,  more  insolent  than  a  woman 
After  the  very  thought  of  deeds  like  these  has  possessed 

her,— 

One  who  would  dare  to  devise  an  act  so  utterly  shameless, 
Lying  in  wait  to  slay  her  wedded  lord.    I  bethought  me,  43o 
Verily,  home  to  my  children  and  servants  giving  me  wel 
come 

Safe  to  return  ;  but  she  has  wrought  for  herself  confusion, 
Plotting  these  grievous  woes,  and  for  other  women  hereafter, 
Even   for   those,  in   sooth,  whose  thoughts   are   set   upon 

goodness." 

Thus  he  spake,  and  I,  in  turn  replying,  adressed  him  :  43s 
"  Heavens !  how   from   the   first   has   Zeus  the   thunderer 
hated, 

232 


THE   DEATH    OF   AGAMEMNON 

All  for  the  women's  wiles,  the  brood  of  Atreus  !  What 
numbers 

Perished  in  quest  of  Helen,  —  and  Klytaimnestra,  the  mean 
while, 

Wrought  in  her  soul  this  guile  for  thee  afar  on  thy  journey." 
Thus  I  spake,  and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straight 
way:  440 

"  See  that  thou  art  not,  then,  like  me  too  mild  to  thy  help 
meet  ; 

Nor  to  her  ear  reveal  each  secret  matter  thou  knowest, 

Tell  her  the  part,  forsooth,  and  see  that  the  rest  shall  be 
hidden. 

Nathless,  not  unto  thee  will  come  such  murder,  Odysseus, 

Dealt  by  a  wife ;  for  wise  indeed,  and  true  in  her  pur 
pose,  445 

Noble  Penelope  is,  the  child  of  Ikarios.    Truly, 

She  it  was  whom  we  left,  a  fair  young  bride,  when  we 
started 

Off  for  the  wars;  and  then  an  infant  lay  at  her  bosom, 

One  who  now,  methinks,  in  the  list  of  men  must  be 
seated, — 

Blest  indeed!  ah,  yes,  for  his  well-loved  father,  return 
ing,  45o 

Him  shall  behold,  and  the  son  shall  clasp  the  sire,  as  is 
fitting. 

Not  unto  me  to  feast  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of  my  off 
spring 

Granted  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  but  first  of  life  she  bereft 
me. 

Therefore  I  say,  moreover,  and  charge  thee  well  to  re 
member, 

Unto  thine  own  dear  land  steer  thou  thy  vessel  in  se 
cret,  455 

Not  in  the  light;  since  faith  can  be  placed  in  woman  no 
longer." 


233 


POEMS    OF   GREECE 
II.  THE   DEATH    OF   AGAMEMNON 

FROM    AISCHYLOS 

I 

[AISCHYLOS,  Agamemnon ,  1 266-1 3  1 8. x] 
CHORUS  —  KASSANDRA  —  AGAMEMNON. 

CHORUS. 

O  WRETCHED  woman  indeed,  and  O  most  wise, 
Much  hast  thou  said ;  but  if  thou  knowest  well 
Thy  doom,  why,  like  a  heifer,  by  the  Gods 
Led  to  the  altar,  tread  so  brave  of  soul  ? 

KASSANDRA. 

There 's  no  escape,  O  friends,  the  time  is  full. 

CHORUS. 
Nathless,  the  last  to  enter  gains  in  time. 

KASSANDRA. 

The  day  has  come ;  little  I  make  by  flight. 

CHORUS. 
Thou  art  bold  indeed,  and  of  a  daring  spirit ! 

KASSANDRA. 

Such  sayings  from  the  happy  none  hath  heard. 

CHORUS. 
Grandly  to  die  is  still  a  grace  to  mortals. 

KASSANDRA. 

Alas,  my  sire,  —  thee  and  thy  noble  brood ! 

(She  starts  hack  from  the  entrance.') 
Text  of  Paley. 
234 


THE   DEATH    OF   AGAMEMNON 

CHORUS. 

How  now  ?  What  horror  turns  thee  back  again  ? 

KASSANDRA. 

Faugh !  faugh ! 

CHORUS. 

Why  such  a  cry  ?  There  Js  something  chills  thy  soul ! 

KASSANDRA. 

The  halls  breathe  murder,  —  ay,  they  drip  with  blood. 

CHORUS. 
How  ?  JT  is  the  smell  of  victims  at  the  hearth. 

KASSANDRA. 

Nay,  but  the  exhalation  of  the  tomb  ! 

CHORUS. 
No  Syrian  dainty,  this,  of  which  thou  speakest. 

KASSANDRA  (at  the  portal). 

Yet  will  I  in  the  palace  wail  my  own 
And  Agamemnon's  fate  !   Enough  of  life  ! 
Alas  !  O  friends  ! 

Yet  not  for  naught  I  quail,  not  as  a  bird 
Snared  in  the  bush :  bear  witness,  though  I  die, 
A  woman's  slaughter  shall  requite  my  own, 
And,  for  this  man  ill-yoked,  a  man  shall  fall ! 
Thus  prays  of  you  a  stranger,  at  death's  door. 

CHORUS. 
Lost  one,  I  rue  with  thee  thy  foretold  doom! 

KASSANDRA. 

Once  more  I  fain  would  utter  words,  once  more,  — 
'T  is  my  own  threne !  And  I  invoke  the  Sun, 
235 


POEMS   OF    GREECE 

By  his  last  beam,  that  my  detested  foes 

May  pay  no  less  to  them  who  shall  avenge  me, 

Than  I  who  die  an  unresisting  slave  ! 

(  She  enters  the  palace. ) 
CHORUS. 

Of  Fortune  was  never  yet  enow 

To  mortal  man ;  and  no  one  ever 

Her  presence  from  his  house  would  sever 

And  point,  and  say,  "  Come  no  more  nigh  !  " 

Unto  our  King  granted  the  Gods  on  high 

That  Priam's  towers  should  bow, 
And  homeward,  crowned  of  Heaven,  hath  he  come ; 
But  how  if,  for  the  ancestral  blood  that  lay 
At  his  doors,  he  falls,  —  and  the  dead,  that  cursed  his  home, 

He,  dying,  must  in  full  requite, — 
What  manner  of  man  is  one  that  would  not  pray 

To  be  born  with  a  good  attendant  Sprite  ? 

{An  outcry  'within  the  palace.} 
AGAMEMNON. 

Woe  's  me  !   I  am  stricken  a  deadly  blow  within  ! 

CHORUS. 
Hark  !   Who  is  't  cries  "  a  blow  "  ?   Who  meets  his  death  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Woe  's  me  !  again  !  a  second  time  I  am  stricken  ! 

CHORUS. 

The  deed,  methinks,  from  the  King's  cry,  is  done. 
Quick,  let  us  see  what  help  may  be  in  counsel ! 


236 


THE    DEATH.  OF   AGAMEMNON 

2. 

[Agamemnon,  i343-I377«] 
Enter  KLYTAIMNESTRA,  from  the  Palace. 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Now,  all  this  formal  outcry  having  vent, 

I  shall  not  blush  to  speak  the  opposite. 

How  should  one,  plotting  evil  things  for  foes, 

Encompass  seeming  friends  with  such  a  bane 

Of  toils  ?  it  were  a  height  too  great  to  leap  ? 

Not  without  full  prevision  came,  though  late, 

To  me  this  crisis  of  an  ancient  feud. 

And  here,  the  deed  being  done,  I  stand  —  even  where 

I  smote  him  1  nor  deny  that  thus  I  did  it, 

So  that  he  could  not  flee  nor  ward  off  doom. 

A  seamless  net,  as  round  a  fish,  I  cast 

About  him,  yea,  a  deadly  wealth  of  robe  ; 

Then  smote  him  twice ;  and  with  a  double  cry 

He  loosed  his  limbs ;  and  to  him  fallen  I  gave 

Yet  a  third  thrust,  a  grace  to  Hades,  lord 

Of  the  underworld  and  guardian  of  the  dead. 

So,  falling,  out  he  gasps  his  soul,  and  out 

He  spurts  a  sudden  jet  of  blood,  that  smites 

Me  with  a  sable  rain  of  gory  dew,  — 

Me,  then  no  less  exulting  than  the  field 

In  the  sky's  gift,  while  bursts  the  pregnant  ear ! 

Things  being  thus,  old  men  of  Argos,  joy, 

If  joy  ye  can  ;  —  I  glory  in  the  deed  I 

And  if 't  were  seemly  ever  yet  to  pour 

Libation  to  the  dead,  't  were  most  so  now ; 

Most  meet  that  one,  who  poured  for  his  own  home 

A  cup  of  ills,  returning,  thus  should  drain  it ! 

CHORUS. 

Shame  on  thy  tongue !  how  bold  of  mouth  thou  art 
That  vauntest  such  a  speech  above  thy  husband  ! 
237 


POEMS    OF    GREECE 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Ye  try  me  as  a  woman  loose  of  soul ; 

But  I  with  dauntless  heart  avow  to  you 

Well  knowing  —  and  whether  ye  choose  to  praise  or  blame 

I  care  not  —  this  is  Agamemnon  ;  yea, 

My  husband  j  yea,  a  corpse,  of  this  right  hand, 

This  craftsman  sure,  the  handiwork  !  Thus  stands  it. 

3 

\_Agamemnon,  1466-1507.] 
CHORUS  —  SEMI-CHORUS  —  KLYTAIMNESTRA 

CHORUS. 

Woe!   Woe' 
King  I   O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying  ? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew  ? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  for  this  slavish  couch  !  By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Thou  sayest  this  deed  was  mine  alone ; 

But  I  bid  thee  call  me  not 
The  wife  of  Agamemnon's  bed  ; 
'Twas  the  ancient  fell  Alastor1  of  Atreus'  throne, 

The  lord  of  a  horrid  feast,  this  crime  begot, 
Taking  the  shape  that  seemed  the  wife  of  the  dead, — 

His  sure  revenge,  I  wot, 
A  victim  ripe  hath  claimed  for  the  young  that  bled. 

1  The  Evil  Genius,  the  Avenger. 
238 


THE    DEATH    OF    AGAMEMNON 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Who  shall  bear  witness  now, — 
Who  of  this  murder,  now,  thee  guiltless  hold  ? 

How  sayest  thou  ?   How  ? 
Yet  the  fell  Alastor  may  have  holpen,  I  trow  : 
Still  is  dark  Ares  driven 
Down  currents  manifold 

Of  kindred  blood,  wherever  judgment  is  given, 
And  he  comes  to  avenge  the  children  slain  of  old, 
And  their  thick  gore  cries  to  Heaven  ! 

CHORUS. 

Woe!   Woe! 
King !   O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying  ? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew  ? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  for  this  slavish  couch  !  By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord  ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Hath  he  not  subtle  Ate  brought 

Himself,  to  his  kingly  halls  ? 
'Twas  on  our  own  dear  offspring,  —  yea, 
On  Iphigeneia,  wept  for  still,  he  wrought 
The  doom  that  cried  for  the  doom  by  which  he  falls. 
O,  let  him  not  in  Hades  boast,  I  say, 
For  't  is  the  sword  that  calls, 
Even  for  that  foul  deed,  his  soul  away  ! 


239 


POEMS   OF    GREECE 


PENELOPE 

NOT  thus,  Ulysses,  with  a  tender  word, 
Pretence  of  state  affairs,  soft  blandishment, 
And  halt  assurances,  canst  thou  evade 
My  heart's  discernment.  Think  not  such^a  film 
Hath  touched  these  aged  eyes,  to  make  tHem  lose 
The  subtlest  mood  of  those  even  now  adroop, 
Self-conscious,  darkling  from  my  nearer  gaze. 
Full  well  I  know  thy  mind,  O  man  of  wiles ! 

0  man  of  restless  yearnings — fate  impelled, 
Fate-conquering  —  like  a  waif  thrown  back  and  forth 
On  many  waters!   Oft  I  see  thee  stand 

At  eve,  a  landmark  on  the  outer  cliff, 
Looking  far  westward  ;  later,  when  the  feast 
Smokes  in  the  hall,  and  nimble  servants  pass 
Great  bowls  of  wine,  and  ancient  Phemeus  sings 
The  deeds  of  Peleus'  son,  thy  right  hand  moves 
Straight  for  its  sword-hilt,  like  a  ship  for  home ; 
Then,  when  thou  hearest  him  follow  in  the  song 
Thine  own  miraculous  sojourn  of  long  years 
Through  stormy  seas,  weird  islands,  and  the  land 
Of  giants,  and  the  gray  companions  smite 
Their  shields,  and  cry,  What  do  we  longer  here? 
Afloat!  and  let  the  great  waves  bear  us  on  ! 

1  know  thou  growest  weary  of  the  realm, 
Thy  wife,  thy  son,  the  people,  and  thy  fame. 

I  too  have  had  my  longings.  Am  I  not 
Penelope,  who  when  Ulysses  came 
To  Sparta  and  Icarius  bade  her  choose 
Betwixt  her  sire  and  wooer,  veiled  her  face 
And  stept  upon  the  galley  silver-oared, 
And  since  hath  kept  thine  Ithacensian  halls  ? 
Then  when  the  hateful  Helen  fled  to  Troy 
With  Paris,  and  the  Argive  chieftains  sailed 
240 


PENELOPE 

Their  ships  to  Aulis,  I  would  have  thee  go  — 
Presaging  fame,  and  power,  and  spoils  of  war. 
So  ten  years  passed;  meanwhile  I  reared  thy  son 
To  know  his  father's  wisdom,  and,  apart 
Among  my  maidens,  wove  the  yellow  wool. 
But  then,  returning  one  by  one,  they  came, — 
The  island  princes;  high-born  dames  of  Crete 
And  Cephalonia  saw  again  their  lords ; 
Only  Ulysses  came  not ;  yet  the  war 
Was  over,  and  his  vessels,  like  a  troop 
Of  cranes  in  file,  had  spread  their  wings  for  home. 
More  was  unknown.  Then  many  a  winter's  night 
The  servants  piled  great  fagots,  smeared  with  tar, 
High  on  the  palace-roof;  with  mine  own  hands 
I  fired  the  heaps,  that,  haply,  far  away 
On  the  dark  waters,  might  my  lord  take  heart 
And  know  the  glory  of  his  kingly  towers. 

So  winter  passed ;  and  summer  came  and  went, 
And  winter  and  another  summer;  then  — 
Alas,  how  many  weary  months  and  days ! 
But  he  I  loved  came  not.   Meanwhile  thou  knowest 
Pelasgia's  noblest  chiefs,  with  kingly  gifts 
And  pledges  of  dower,  gathered  in  the  halls ; 
But  still  this  heart  kept  faithful,  knowing  yet 
Thou  wouldst  return,  though  wrecked  on  alien  shores. 
And  great  Athene  often  in  my  dreams 
Shone,  uttering  words  of  cheer.   But,  last  of  all, 
The  people  rose,  swearing  a  king  should  rule, 
To  keep  their  ancient  empery  of  the  isles 
Inviolate  and  thrifty  :   bade  me  choose 
A  mate,  no  longer  dally.  Then  I  prayed 
Respite,  until  the  web  within  my  loom, 
Of  gold  and  purple  curiously  devised 
For  old  Laertes'  shroud  should  fall  complete 
From  hands  still  faithful  to  his  blood.  Thou  knowest 
How  like  a  ghost  I  left  my  couch  at  night, 
241 


POEMS    OF    GREECE 

Unravelling  the  labor  of  the  day, 
And  warded  off  the  fate,  till  came  that  time 
When  my  lost  sea-king  thundered  in  his  halls, 
And  with  long  arrows  clove  the  suitors'  hearts. 
So  constant  was  I !  now  not  thirty  moons 
Go  by,  and  thou  forgettest  all.   Alas ! 
What  profit  is  there  any  more  in  love  ? 
What  thankless  sequel  hath  a  woman's  faith! 

Yet  if  thou  wilt, — in  these  thy  golden  years, 
Safe-housed  in  royalty,  like  a  god  revered 
By  all  the  people,  —  if  thou  yearnest  yet 
Once  more  to  dare  the  deep  and  Neptune's  hate, 
I  will  not  linger  in  a  widowed  age ; 
I  will  not  lose  Ulysses,  hardly  found 
After  long  vigils  ;   but  will  cleave  about 
Thy  neck,  with  more  than  woman's  prayers  and  tears, 
Until  thou  take  me  with  thee.  As  I  left 
My  sire,  I  leave  my  son,  to  follow  where 
Ulysses  goeth,  dearer  for  the  strength 
Of  that  great  heart  which  ever  drives  him  on 
To  large  experience  of  newer  toils ! 

Trust  me,  I  will  not  any  hindrance  prove, 
But,  like  Athene's  helm,  a  guiding  star, 
A  glory  and  a  comfort !   O,  be  sure 
My  heart  shall  take  its  lesson  from  thine  own  ! 
My  voice  shall  cheer  the  mariners  at  their  oars 
In  the  night  watches ;  it  shall  warble  songs, 
Whose  music  shall  outvie  the  luring  airs 
Of  Nereid  or  Siren.   If  we  find 
Those  isles  thou  namest,  where  the  golden  fount 
Gives  youth  to  all  who  taste  it,  we  will  drink 
Deep  draughts,  until  the  furrows  leave  thy  brow, 
And  I  shall  walk  in  beauty,  as  when  first 
I  saw  thee  from  afar  in  Sparta's  groves. 
But  if  Charybdis  seize  our  keel,  or  swift 
242 


ALECTRYON 

Black  currents  bear  us  down  the  noisome  wave 
That  leads  to  Hades,  till  the  vessel  sink 
In  Stygian  waters,  none  the  less  our  souls 
Shall  gain  the  farther  shore,  and,  hand  in  hand, 
Walk  from  the  strand  across  Elysian  fields, 
'Mong  happy  thronging  shades,  that  point  and  say : 
"There  go  the  great  Ulysses,  loved  of  gods, 
And  she,  his  wife,  most  faithful  unto  death  !  " 


ALECTRYON 

GREAT  Ares,  whose  tempestuous  godhood  found 
Delight  in  those  thick-tangled  solitudes 
Of  Hebrus- watered  tracts  of  rugged  Thrace, — 
Great  Ares,  scouring  the  Odrysian  wilds, 
There  met  Alectryon,  a  Thracian  boy, 
Stalwart  beyond  his  years,  and  swift  of  foot 
To  hunt  from  morn  till  eve  the  white-toothed  boar. 
"  What  hero,"  said  the  war-God,  "  joined  his  blood 
With  that  of  Haemian  nymph,  to  make  thy  form 
So  fair,  thy  soul  so  daring,  and  thy  thews 
So  lusty  for  the  contest  on  the  plains 
Wherein  the  fleet  Odrysae  tame  their  steeds  ?  " 

From  that  time  forth  the  twain  together  chased 
The  boar,  or  made  their  coursers  cleave  the  breadth 
Of  yellow  Hebrus,  and,  through  vales  beyond, 
Drove  the  hot  leopard  foaming  to  his  lair. 
And  day  by  day  Alectryon  dearer  grew 
To  the  God's  restless  spirit,  till  from  Thrace 
He  bore  him,  even  to  Olympos ;  there 
Before  him  set  immortal  food  and  wine, 
That  fairer  youth  and  lustier  strength  might  serve 
His  henchman;  bade  him  bear  his  arms,  and  cleanse 
The  crimsoned  burnish  of  his  brazen  car : 
So  dwelt  the  Thracian  youth  among  the  Gods. 
243 


POEMS    OF   GREECE 

There  came  a  day  when  Ares  left  at  rest 
His  spear,  and  smoothed  his  harmful,  unhelmed  brow, 
Calling  Alectryon  to  his  side,  and  said  : 
"  The  shadow  of  Olympos  longer  falls 
Through  misty  valleys  of  the  lower  world  ; 
The  Earth  shall  be  at  peace  a  summer's  night ; 
Men  shall  have  calm,  and  the  unconquered  host 
Peopling  the  walls  of  Troas,  and  the  tribes 
Of  Greece,  shall  sleep  sweet  sleep  upon  their  arms; 
For  Aphrodite,  queen  of  light  and  love, 
Awaits  me,  blooming  in  the  House  of  Fire, 
Girt  with  the  cestus,  infinite  in  grace, 
Dearer  than  battle  and  the  joy  of  war : 
She,  for  whose  charms  I  would  renounce  the  sword 
Forever,  even  godhood,  would  she  wreathe 
My  brows  with  myrtle,  dwelling  far  from  Heaven. 
Hephaistos,  the  lame  cuckold,  unto  whose 
Misshapen  squalor  Zeus  hath  given  my  queen, 
To-night  seeks  Lemnos,  and  his  sooty  vault 
Roofed  by  the  roaring  surge ;  wherein,  betimes, 
He  and  his  Cyclops  pound  the  ringing  iron, 
Forging  great  bolts  for  Zeus,  and  welding  mail, 
White-hot,  in  shapes  for  Heroes  and  the  Gods. 
Do  thou,  Alectryon,  faithful  to  my  trust, 
Hie  with  me  to  the  mystic  House  of  Fire. 
Therein,  with  wine  and  fruitage  of  her  isle, 
Sweet  odors,  and  all  rarest  sights  and  sounds, 
My  Paphian  mistress  shall  regale  us  twain. 
But  when  the  feast  is  over,  and  thou  seest 
Ares  and  Aphrodite  pass  beyond 
The  portals  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth, 
Watch  by  the  entrance,  sleepless,  while  we  sleep ; 
And  warn  us  ere  the  glimpses  of  the  Dawn ; 
Lest  Helios,  the  spy,  may  peer  within 
Our  windows,  and  to  Lemnos  speed  apace, 

244 


ALECTRYON 

In  envy  clamoring  to  the  hobbling  smith, 
Hephaistos,  of  the  wrong  I  do  his  bed." 

Thus  Ares ;  and  the  Thracian  boy,  well  pleased, 
Swore  to  be  faithful  to  his  trust,  and  liege 
To  her,  the  perfect  queen  of  light  and  love. 
So  saying,  they  reached  the  fiery,  brazen  gates, 
Encolumned  high  by  Heaven's  artisan, 
Hephaistos,  rough,  begrimed,  and  halt  of  foot,  — 
Yet  unto  whom  was  Aphrodite  given 
By  Zeus,  because  from  his  misshapen  hands 
All  shapely  things  found  being ;  but  the  gift 
Brought  him  no  joyance,  nor  made  pure  his  fame, 
Like  those  devices  which  he  wrought  himself, 
Grim,  patient,  unbeloved. 

There  passed  they  in 
At  portals  of  the  high,  celestial  House, 
And  on  beyond  the  starry-golden  court, 
Through  amorous  hidden  ways,  and  winding  paths 
Set  round  with  splendors,  to  the  spangled  hall 
Of  secret  audience  for  noble  guests. 
Here  Charis  labored,  so  Hephaistos  bade, 
Moulding  the  room's  adornments ;  here  she  built 
Low  couches,  framed  in  ivory,  overlain 
With  skins  of  pard  and  panther,  and  the  fleece 
Of  sheep  which  graze  the  low  Hesperian  isles; 
And  in  the  midst  a  cedarn  table  spread, 
Whereon  the  loves  of  all  the  elder  Gods 
Were  wrought  in  gold  and  silver;  and  the  light 
Of  quenchless  rubies  sparkled  over  all. 
Thus  far  came  Ares  and  Alectryon, 
First  leaving  shield  and  falchion  at  the  door, 
That  naught  of  violence  should  haunt  that  air 
Serene,  but  laughter-loving  peace,  and  joys 
The  meed  of  Gods,  once  given  men  to  know. 


245 


POEMS    OF   GREECE 

Then,  from  her  dais  in  the  utmost  hall, 
Shone  toward  them  Aphrodite,  not  by  firm, 
Imperial  footfalls,  but  in  measureless 
Procession,  even  as,  wafted  by  her  doves, 
She  kissed  the  faces  of  the  yearning  waves 
From  Cyprus  to  the  high  Thessalian  mount, 
Claiming  her  throne  in  Heaven ;  so  light  she  stept, 
Untended  by  her  Graces  ;  only  he, 
Eros,  th'  eternal  child,  with  welcomings 
Sprang  forward  to  Ares,  like  a  beam  of  light 
Flashed  from  a  coming  brightness,  ere  it  comes ; 
And  the  ambrosial  mother  to  his  glee 
Joined  her  own  joy,  coy  as  she  glided  near 
Ares,  till  Ares  closed  her  in  his  arms 
An  instant,  with  the  perfect  love  of  Gods. 
And  the  wide  chamber  gleamed  with  their  delight, 
And  infinite  tinkling  laughters  rippled  through 
Far  halls,  wherefrom  no  boding  echoes  came. 

But  when  the  passion  of  their  meeting  fell 
To  dalliance,  the  mighty  lovers,  sunk 
Within  those  ivory  couches  golden-fleeced, 
Made  wassail  at  the  wondrous  board,  and  held 
Sweet  stolen  converse  till  the  middle  night. 
And  soulless  servitors  came  gliding  in, 
Handmaidens,  wrought  of  gold,  the  marvellous  work 
Of  lame  Hephaistos  ;  having  neither  will, 
Nor  voice,  yet  bearing  on  their  golden  trays 
Lush  fruits  and  Cyprian  wine,  and,  intermixt, 
Olympian  food  and  nectar,  earth  with  heaven. 
These  Eros  and  Alectryon  took  therefrom, 
And  placed  before  the  lovers  :  and,  meanwhile, 
Melodious  breathings  from  unfingered  lutes, 
Warblings  from  unseen  nightingales,  and  songs 
From  lips  uncrimsoned,  scattered  music  round. 
So  fled  the  light-shod  moments,  hour  by  hour, 
While  the  grim  husband  clanged  upon  his  forge 
246 


ALECTRYON 

In  lurid  caverns  of  the  distant  isle, 

Unboding,  and  unheeded  in  his  home, 

Save  with  a  scornful  jest.  Till  now  the  crown 

Of  Artemis  shone  at  her  topmost  height : 

Then  rose  the  impassioned  lovers,  with  rapt  eyes 

Fixed  each  on  each,  and  passed  beyond  the  hall, 

Through  curtains  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 

Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth ; 

At  whose  dim  vestibule  Alectryon 

Disposed  him,  mindful  of  his  master's  word ; 

But  Eros,  heavy-eyed,  long  since  had  slept, 

Deep-muffled  in  the  softness  of  his  plumes. 

And  all  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Fire. 

Only  Alectryon,  through  brazen  bars, 
Watched  the  blue  East  for  Eos,  she  whose  torch 
Should  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Sun. 
Even  thus  he  kept  his  vigils;  but,  ere  half 
Her  silvery  downward  path  the  Huntress  knew, 
His  senses  by  that  rich  immortal  food 
Grew  numbed  with  languor.  Then  the  shadowy  hall's 
Deep  columns  glimmered,  interblent  with  dreams, — 
Thick  forests,  running  waters,  darkling  caves 
Of  Thrace ;  and  half  in  thought  he  grasped  the  bow; 
Hunted  once  more  within  his  native  wilds, 
Cheering  the  hounds ;  until  before  his  eyes 
The  drapery  of  all  nearer  pictures  fell, 
And  his  limbs  drooped.  Whereat  the  imp  of  Sleep, 
Hypnos,  who  hid  him  at  the  outer  gate, 
Slid  in  with  silken-sandalled  feet,  and  laid 
A  subtle  finger  on  his  lids.  And  so, 
Crouched  at  the  warder-post,  Alectryon  slept. 

Meanwhile  the  God  and  Goddess,  recking  nought 
Of  evil,  trusting  to  the  faithful  boy, 
Sank  satiate  in  the  calm  of  tranced  rest. 
And  past  the  sleeping  warder,  deep  within 
247 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 

The  portals  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth, 
Hypnos  kept  on,  walking,  yet  half  afloat 
In  the  sweet  air ;  and  fluttering  with  cool  wings 
Above  their  couch  fanned  the  reposeful  pair 
To  slumber.  Thus,  a  careless  twilight  hour, 
Unknowing  Eos  and  her  torch,  they  slept. 

Ill-fated  rest !  Awake,  ye  fleet-winged  Loves, 
Your  mistress  !   Eos,  rouse  the  sleeping  God, 
And  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Day  ! 
Alectryon,  wake  !   In  vain  :  Eos  swept  by, 
Radiant,  a  blushing  finger  on  her  lips. 
In  vain !   Close  on  her  flight,  from  furthest  East, 
The  peering  Helios  drove  his  lambent  car, 
Casting  the  tell-tale  beams  on  earth  and  sky, 
Until  Olympos  laughed  within  his  light, 
And  all  the  House  of  Fire  grew  roofed  with  gold ; 
And  through  its  brazen  windows  Helios  gazed 
Upon  the  sleeping  lovers  :  thence  away 
To  Lemnos  flashed,  across  the  rearward  sea, 
A  messenger,  from  whom  the  vengeful  smith, 
Hephaistos,  learned  the  story  of  his  wrongs ; 
Whence  afterward  rude  scandal  spread  through  Heaven, 

But  they,  the  lovers,  startled  from  sweet  sleep 
By  garish  Day,  stood  timorous  and  mute, 
Even  as  a  regal  pair,  the  hart  and  hind, 
When  first  the  keynote  of  the  clarion  horn 
Pierces  their  covert,  and  the  deep-mouthed  hound 
Bays,  following  on  the  trail ;  then,  with  small  pause 
For  amorous  partings,  sped  in  diverse  ways. 
She,  Aphrodite,  clothed  in  pearly  cloud, 
Dropt  from  Olympos  to  the  eastern  shore ; 
Thence  floated,  half  in  shame,  half  laughter-pleased, 
Southward  across  the  blue  /Egaean  sea, 
That  had  a  thousand  little  dimpling  smiles 
248 


ALECTRYON 

At  her  discomfort,  and  a  thousand  eyes 

To  shoot  irreverent  glances.   But  her  conch 

Passed  the  Euboean  coasts,  and  softly  on 

By  rugged  Delos,  and  the  gentler  slope 

Of  Naxos,  to  Icarian  waves  serene ; 

Thence  sailed  betwixt  fair  Rhodes,  on  the  left, 

And  windy  Carpathos,  until  it  touched 

Cyprus ;  and  soon  the  conscious  Goddess  found 

Her  bower  in  the  hollow  of  the  isle  ; 

And  wondering  nymphs  in  their  white  arms  received 

Their  white-armed  mistress,  bathing  her  fair  limbs 

In  fragrant  dews,  twining  her  lucent  hair 

With  roses,  and  with  kisses  soothing  her ; 

Till,  glowing  in  fresh  loveliness,  she  sank 

To  stillness,  tended  in  the  sacred  isle, 

And  hid  herself  awhile  from  all  her  peers. 

But  angry  Ares  faced  the  treacherous  Morn, 
Spurning  the  palace  tower ;  nor  looked  behind, 
Disdainful  of  himself  and  secret  joys 
That  stript  him  to  the  laughter  of  the  Gods. 
Toward  the  East  he  made,  and  overhung 
The  broad  Thermaic  gulf;  then,  shunning  well 
The  crags  of  Lemnos,  by  Mount  Athos  stayed 
A  moment,  mute  ;  thence  hurtled  sheer  away, 
Across  the  murmuring  Northern  sea,  whose  waves 
Are  swollen  in  billows  ruffled  with  the  cuffs 
Of  endless  winds  ;  so  reached  the  shores  of  Thrace, 
And  spleen  pursued  him  in  the  tangled  wilds. 

Hither  at  eventide  remorseful  came 
Alectryon ;  but  the  indignant  God, 
With  harsh  revilings,  changed  him  to  the  Cock, 
That  evermore,  remembering  his  fault, 
Heralds  with  warning  voice  the  coming  Day. 
1863. 


249 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 


CRETE 

THOUGH  Arkadi's  shattered  pile 

Hides  her  dead  without  a  dirge, 
Lo !  where  still  the  mountain  isle 

Fronts  the  angry  Moslem  surge  ! 
Hers,  in  old,  heroic  days, 

Her  unfettered  heights  afar 
'Twixt  the  Grecian  Gulf  to  raise, 

And  the  torrid  Libyan  star. 

From  her  bulwarks  to  the  North 

Stretched  the  glad  ^Egaean  Sea, 
Sending  bards  and  warriors  forth 

To  the  triumphs  of  the  free ; 
111  the  fierce  invader  throve, 

When,  from  island  or  from  main, 
Side  by  side  the  Grecians  strove : 

Swift  he  sought  his  lair  again  ! 

Though  the  Cretan  eagle  fell, 

And  the  ancient  height  were  won, 

Freedom's  light  was  guarded  well, — 
Handed  down  from  sire  to  son ; 

Through  the  centuries  of  shame, 

&  * 

Ah  !  it  never  wholly  died, 
But  was  hid,  a  sacred  flame, 
There  on  topmost  Ida's  side. 

Shades  of  heroes  Homer  sung  — 

Wearing  once  her  hundred  crowns - 
Rise  with  shadowy  swords  among 

Candia's  smoking  fields  and  towns; 
Not  again  their  souls  shall  sleep, 

Nor  the  crescent  wane  in  peace, 
Till  from  every  island-keep 

Shines  the  starry  Cross  of  Greece. 
250 


NEWS   FROM    OLYMPIA 


NEWS    FROM    OLYMPIA1 

OLYMPIA  ?    Yes,  strange  tidings  from  the  city 

Which  pious  mortals  builded,  stone  by  stone, 
For  those  old  gods  of  Hellas,  half  in  pity 

Of  their  storm-mantled  height  and  dwelling  lone,— 
Their  seat  upon  the  mountain  overhanging 

Where  Zeus  withdrew  behind  the  rolling  cloud, 
Where  crowned  Apollo  sang,  the  phorminx  twanging, 

And  at  Poseidon's  word  the  forests  bowed. 

Ay,  but  that  fated  day 

When  from  the  plain  Olympia  passed  away ; 
When  ceased  the  oracles,  and  long  unwept 
Amid  their  fanes  the  gods  deserted  fell, 
While  sacerdotal  ages,  as  they  slept, 

The  ruin  covered  well ! 

The  pale  Jew  flung  his  cross,  thus  one  has  written, 

Among  them  as  they  sat  at  the  high  feast, 
And  saw  the  gods,  before  that  token  smitten, 

Fade  slowly,  while  His  presence  still  increased, 
Until  the  seas  Ionian  and  ^Egaean 

Gave  out  a  cry  that  Pan  himself  was  dead, 
And  all  was  still :  thenceforth  no  more  the  paean, 

No  more  by  men  the  prayer  to  Zeus  was  said. 

Sank,  like  a  falling  star, 
Hephaistos  in  the  Lemnian  waters  far; 
The  silvery  Huntress  fled  the  darkened  sky ; 
Dim  grew  Athene's  helm,  Apollo's  crown  ; 
Alpheios'  nymphs  stood  wan  and  trembling  by 

When  Hera's  fane  went  down. 

1  "  One  after  the  other  the  figures  described  by  Pausanias  are  dragged  from  the 
earth.  Nike  has  been  found  j  the  head  of  Kladeos  is  there  ;  Myrtilos  is  announced, 
and  Zeus  will  soon  emerge.  This  is  earnest  of  what  may  follow."  — Dispatch  to 
the  London  Times. 

2 --a 


POEMS   OF   GREECE 

News  !   what  news  ?   Has  it  in  truth  then  ended, 

The  term  appointed  for  that  wondrous  sleep  ? 
Has  Earth  so  well  her  fairest  brood  defended 

Within  her  bosom  ?    Was  their  slumber  deep 
Not  this  our  dreamless  rest  that  knows  no  waking, 

But  that  to  which  the  years  are  as  a  day  ? 
What !   are  they  coming  back,  their  prison  breaking, 

These  gods  of  Homer's  chant,  of  Pindar's  lay  ? 

Are  they  coming  back  in  might, 
Olympia's  gods,  to  claim  their  ancient  right  ? 
Shall  then  the  sacred  majesty  of  old, 
The  grace  that  holy  was,  the  noble  rage, 
Temper  our  strife,  abate  our  greed  for  gold, 
Make  fine  the  modern  age  ? 

• 
Yes,  they  are  coming  back,  to  light  returning ' 

Bold  are  the  hearts  and  void  of  fear  the  hands 
That  toil,  the  lords  of  War  and  Spoil  unurning, 

Or  of  their  sisters  fair  that  break  the  bands  ; 
That  loose  the  sovran  mistress  of  desire, 

Queen  Aphrodite,  to  possess  the  earth 
Once  more ;  that  dare  renew  dread  Hera's  ire, 

And  rouse  old  Pan  to  wantonness  of  mirth. 

The  herald  Nike,  first, 

From  the  dim  resting-place  unfettered  burst, 
Winged  victor  over  fate  and  time  and  death ! 
Zeus  follows  next,  and  all  his  children  then  ; 
Phoibos  awakes  and  draws  a  joyous  breath, 

And  Love  returns  to  men. 

Ah,  let  them  come,  the  glorious  Immortals, 
Rulers  no  more,  but  with  mankind  to  dwell, 

The  dear  companions  of  our  hearts  and  portals, 
Voiceless,  unworshipped,  yet  beloved  right  well ! 


252 


NEWS   FROM    OLYMPIA 

Pallas  shall  sit  enthroned  in  wisdom's  station, 

Eros  and  Psyche  be  forever  wed, 
And  still  the  primal  loveliest  creation 

Yield  new  delight  from  ancient  beauty  bred. 

Triumphant  as  of  old, 

Changeless  while  Art  and  Song  their  warrant  hold, 
The  visions  of  our  childhood  haunt  us  still, 
Still  Hellas  sways  us  with  her  charm  supreme. 
The  morn  is  past,  but  Man  has  not  the  will 

To  banish  yet  the  dream. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE 


THE   BLAMELESS   PRINCE 


PRELUDE 

PoET,  wherefore  hither  bring 
Old  romance,  while  others  sing 

Sweeter  idyls  of  to-day  ? 

Why  not  picture  in  your  lay 
Western  woods  and  waters  grand, 
Clouds  and  skies  of  this  fair  land  ? 

Are  there  fairer  far  away? 

I  have  many  another  song 
Of  those  regions  where  belong, 

First  of  all,  my  heart  and  home. 

If  for  once  my  fancy  roam, 
Trust  me,  in  the  land  I  view 
Falls  the  sunshine,  falls  the  dew, 

And  the  Spring  and  Summer  come. 

Why  from  yonder  stubble  glean 
Ancient  names  of  King  and  ^ueen, 

Knightly  men  and  maidens  fair  ? 

Are  there  in  our  time  no  rare 
Beauteous  women,  heroes  brave  ? 
Is  there  naught  this  side  the  grave 

Worth  the  dust  you  gather  there  ? 

Nay,  but  these  were  human  too, 
Strong  or  wayward,  false  or  true. 
Art  will  seek  through  every  clime 
For  her  picture  or  her  rhyme  •, 
257 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Yes,  nor  looking  far  around, 
But  to-day  I  sought  and  found 
These  who  lived  in  that  old  time. 

Why  should  we  again  be  told 

Dross  will  mingle  with  all  gold  ? 
That  which  time  nor  test  can  stain 
Was  not  smelted  quite  in  vain. 

What  of  Albert's  blameless  heart, 

Arthur  s  old  heroic  part, 

Saxon  Alfred's  glorious  reign  ? 

Yes,  my  Prince  was  such  as  they, 
Part  of  gold,  and  part  of  clay, 

Though  his  metal  shone  as  bright, 
And  his  dross  was  hid  from  sight. 
He  who  brightest  is,  and  best 
Still  may  fear  the  secret  test 
That  shall  try  his  heart  aright. 


Let  me,  then,  of  what  befell 
Hearts  that  loved,  my  story  tell. 
Turn  the  leaf  that  lies  between 
You  who  listen  and  the  scene  ! 
Your  pity  for  the  Lady,  since 
She  died  of  sorrow  ;  spare  my  Prince; 
Love  to  the  last  my  gentle  Queen  ! 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

LONG  since,  there  was  a  Princess  of  the  blood, 
Sole  heiress  to  the  crown  her  father  wore,  — 

Plucked  from  a  dying  stem,  that  one  fair  bud 
Put  forth,  and  withered  ere  it  others  bore  ; 

258 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  scarce  the  King  her  blossomed  youth  had  seen, 
When  he,  too,  slept  the  sleep,  and  she  was  Queen. 

Hers  was  a  goodly  realm,  not  stretched  afar 
In  desert  wilds  by  wolf  and  savage  scoured, 

But  locked  in  generous  limits,  strong  in  war, 

Serene  in  peac'e,  with  mountains  walled  and  towered, 

Fed  by  the  tilth  of  many  a  fertile  plain, 

And  veined  with  streams  that  proudly  sought  the  main. 

The  open  sea  bore  commerce  to  her  marts, 

Tumbling  half  round  her  borders  with  its  tide ; 

Her  vessels  shot  the  surge ;   all  noble  arts 
Of  use  and  beauty  in  her  towns  were  plied; 

Her  court  was  regal ;   lords  and  ladies  lit 

The  palace  with  their  graces  and  their  wit. 

Wise  councillors  devised  each  apt  decree 

That  gained  the  potent  sanction  of  her  hand  ; 

Great  captains  led  her  arms  on  shore  and  sea  ; 
She  was  the  darling  of  a  loyal  land ; 

Poets  sang  her  praises,  and  in  hut  and  hall 

Her  excellence  was  the  discourse  of  all. 

Her  pride  was  suited  to  her  high  estate, 
Her  gentleness  was  equal  with  her  youth, 

Her  wisdom  in  her  goodness  found  its  mate; 
Her  beauty  was  not  that  which  brings  to  ruth 

Men's  lives,  yet  pure  and  luminous;  —  and  fair 

Her  locks,  and  over  all  a  sovereign  air. 

Without,  she  bore  herself  as  rulers  should, 
Queenly  in  walk  and  gesture  and  attire ; 

Within,  she  nursed  her  flower  of  maidenhood, 
Sweet  girlish  thoughts  and  virginal  desire : 

259 


THE    BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

No  woman's  head  so  keen  to  work  its  will 
But  that  the  woman's  heart  is  mistress  still. 

Three  years  she  ruled  a  nation  well  content 
To  have  a  maiden  queen ;  then  came  a  day 

When  those  on  whom  her  councils  chiefly  leant 
Began  to  speak  of  marriage,  and  to  pray 

Their  sovereign  not  to  hold  herself  alone, 

Nor  trust  the  tenure  of  an  heirless  throne  ;  — 

And  then  the  people  took  the  cry,  nor  lack 
Was  there  of  courtly  suitors  far  or  near,  — 

Kings,  dukes,  crown-princes,  —  swift  upon  the  track, 
Like  huntsmen  closing  round  a  royal  deer. 

These  she  regarded  not,  but  still,  among 

Her  maids  and  missals,  to  her  freedom  clung. 

And  with  the  rest  there  came  a  puissant  king, 

Whose  country  pressed  against  her  own  domain, — 

In  strength  its  equal,  but  continuing 

Its  dearest  foe  through  many  a  martial  reign. 

He  sued  to  join  his  hand  and  realm  with  hers, 

And  end  these  wars ;  then  all  her  ministers 

Pleaded  his  suit ;  but,  asking  yet  for  grace, 
And  that  her  hand  might  wait  upon  her  heart, 

She  halted,  till  the  proud  king  turned  his  face 
Homeward  ;  and  still  the  people,  for  their  part, 

Waited  her  choice,  nor  grudged  her  sex's  share 

Of  coyness  to  a  queen  so  young  and  fair. 

There  was  a  little  State  that  nestled  close 
Beside  her  boundaries,  as  wont  to  claim, 

Though  free,  protection  there  from  outer  foes, 
A  Principality  —  at  least  in  name  — 

Whose  ruler  was  her  father's  life-long  friend 

And  firm  ally,  a  statesman  skilled  to  lend 
260 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 


Shrewd  counsel,  and  who  made,  in  days  gone  by, 

A  visit  to  this  court,  and  with  him  led 
His  son,  a  gentle  Prince,  of  years  anigh 

Her  own,  —  twelve  summers  shone  from  either  head; 
And  while  their  elders  moved  from  place  to  place,  — 
The  field-review,  the  audience,  the  chase,  — 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

From  half  the  weathercocks  which  gilt  the  state, 

Spying  the  wind  and  shifting  where  it  turned  — 
That  for  love's  simple  sake  his  son  could  gain 
The  world's  chief  prize,  which  kings  had  sought  in  vain. 

How  could  he  choose  but  clutch  it  ?    Yet  the  son 
Seemed  worthy,  for  his  parts  were  of  that  mould 

Oft-failing  Nature  strives  to  join  in  one, 

And  shape  a  hero, —  pure  and  wise  and  bold  : 

In  arts  and  arms  the  wonder  of  his  peers, 

The  flower  of  princes,  prince  of  cavaliers  j 

Tall,  lithe  of  form,  and  of  a  Northern  mien, 

Gentle  in  speech  and  thought, — while  thus  he  shone, 

A  rising  star,  though  chosen  of  a  queen, 

Why  seek  the  skies  less  tranquil  than  his  own  ? 

Why  should  he  climb  beside  her  perilous  height, 

And  in  that  noonday  blaze  eclipse  his  light  ? 

Ah,  why  ?  —  one's  own  life  may  be  bravely  led, 

But  not  another's.    Yet,  as  to  and  fro 
The  buzzing  private  embassies  were  sped, 

And  when  the  Queen's  own  pages,  bowing  low, 
Told  in  his  ear  a  sweet  and  secret  story, 
The  Prince,  long  trained  to  seek  his  house's  glory, 

Let  every  gracious  sentence  seem  a  plume 
Of  love  and  beckoning  beauty  for  his  helm. 

So  passed  a  season  ;  then  the  cannon's  boom 
And  belfry's  peal  delivered  to  the  realm 

The  Queen's  betrothal,  and  the  councils  met, 

And  for  the  nuptial  rites  a  day  was  set. 


Now  when  the  time  grew  ripe,  the  favored  Prince 
Rides  forth,  and  through  the  little  towns  that  mourn 
262 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

His  loss,  and  past  the  boundaries  ;   and,  since 

To  ape  the  pomp  to  which  he  was  not  born 
Seemed  in  his  soul  a  foolish  thing  and  vain, 
A  few  near  comrades,  only,  made  his  train. 

Nor  pressed  the  populace  along  the  ways ; 

But  —  for  he  wished  it  so  —  unheralded 
He  rode  from  post  to  post  through  many  days, 

Yet  gained  a  greatness  as  the  distance  fled, 
As  some  dim  comet,  drawing  near  its  bound, 
Takes  lustre  from  the  orb  it  courses  round. 

And  league  by  league  his  fantasies  outran 

His  progress,  brooding  on  his  mistress'  power, 

Until  his  own  estate  the  while  began 

To  seem  of  lesser  worth  each  passing  hour ; 

And  with  misdoubt  this  fortune  weighed  him  down, 

As  though  a  splendid  mantle  had  been  thrown 

About  him,  which  he  knew  not  well  to  wear, 
And  might  not  forfeit.    Yet  he  spurred  apace, 

And  reached  a  country-seat  that  bordered  near 
The  Capital.    Here,  for  a  little  space, 

He  was  to  rest  from  travel,  and  await 

His  day  of  entrance  at  the  city's  gate. 

Upon  these  grounds  a  gray-haired  noble  dwelt, 
A  ribboned  courtier  of  the  former  reign  ; 

A  tedious  proper  man,  who  glibly  knelt 

To  royalty,  —  this  ancient  chamberlain, — 

Yoked  with  a  girlish  wife,  and,  for  the  rest, 

Proud  of  the  charge  that  made  a  prince  his  guest. 

The  highway  ran  beside  a  greenwood  keep 

That  reached,  herefrom, quite  to  the  city's  edge; 

Across,  the  fields  with  golden  corn  were  deep  ; 
The  level  sunset  pierced  the  wayside  hedge ; 

263 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

The  banks  were  all  abloom  ;  a  pheasant  whirred 
Far  in  the  bush ;  anon,  some  tuneful  bird 

Broke  into  song,  or,  from  a  covert  dark, 

A  bounding  deer  its  dappled  haunches  showed 

As  though  it  heard  the  stag-hound's  distant  bark. 
The  wistful  Prince  with  loitering  purpose  bode, 

And  thought  how  good  it  were  to  spend  one's  life 

Far  off  from  men,  nor  jostled  with  their  strife. 

Even  as  he  mused  he  saw  his  host  ahead, 
Speeding  to  welcome  him,  in  lordly  wont, 

And  all  the  household  in  a  line  bestead  ; 
And  lightly  with  that  escort,  at  the  front, 

A  peerless  woman  rode  across  the  green  ; 

Then  the  Prince  thought,  "  It  surely  is  the  Queen, 

Who  comes  to  meet  me  of  her  loving  grace  !  " 
And  his  blood  mounted  ;  but  he  knew  how  fair 

The  royal  locks,  and,  when  she  neared  his  place, 
He  saw  the  lady's  prodigal  dark  hair 

And  wondrous  loveliness  were  wide  apart 

From  the  sweet,  tranquil  picture  next  his  heart. 

And  when  the  chamberlain,  with  halted  suit, 

Made  reverence,  and  was  answered  courteous-wise, 

The  lady  to  her  knightly  guest's  salute 

Turned  her  face  full,  so  that  he  marked  her  eyes,  — 

How  dewy  gray  beneath  each  long,  black  lid, 

And  danger  somewhere  in  their  light  lay  hid. 

There  are  some  natures  housed  so  chaste  within 
Their  placid  dwellings  that  their  heads  control 

The  tumult  of  their  hearts  ;   and  thus  they  win 
A  quittance  from  this  pleading  of  the  soul 

For  Love,  whose  service  does  so  wound  and  heal ; 

How  should  they  crave  for  what  they  cannot  feel  ? 
264 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

From  passion  and  from  pain  enfranchised  quite, 
Alike  from  gain  and  never-stanched  Regret, 

Calm  as  the  blind  who  have  not  seen  the  light, 
The  dumb  who  hear  no  precious  voice  ;  and  yet 

The  sun  forever  pours  his  lambent  fire 

And  the  high  winds  are  vocal  with  desire. 

And  there  are  those  whose  fervent  souls  are  wed 
To  glorious  bodies,  panoplied  for  love, 

Born  to  hear  sweetest  words  that  can  be  said, 
To  give  and  gather  kisses,  and  to  move 

All  men  with  longing  after  them,  —  to  know 

What  flowers  of  paradise  for  lovers  grow. 

The  Vestal,  with  her  silvery  content, 

The  Lesbian,  with  the  passion  and  the  pain, — 

Which  creature  hath  their  one  Creator  lent 

More  light  of  heaven  ?    Who  would  dare  restrain 

The  beams  of  either  ?  who  the  radiance  mar 

Of  the  white  planet  or  the  burning  star  ? 

If  in  its  innocence  a  life  is  bound 

With  cords  that  thrall  its  birthright  and  design, 
Let  those  whose  hands  the  evil  meshes  wound 

Pray  that  it  cast  no  look  beyond  their  line ; 
That  no  strong  voice  too  late  may  enter  in 
Its  prison-range,  to  teach  what  might  have  been. 

Was  there  no  conscious  spirit  thus  to  plead 
For  this  bright  lady,  as  the  wondering  guest 

Closed  with  his  welcomers,  and  each  took  heed 
Of  each,  and  horse  to  horse  they  rode  abreast, 

Nearing  a  fair  and  spacious  house  that  stood, 

Half  hidden,  in  the  edges  of  the  wood  ? 

And  while,  the  last  court-tidings  running  o'er, 
Their  talk  on  this  and  that  at  random  fell, 

265 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  the  trains  joined  behind,  the  lady  bore 

Her  beauteous  head  askance,  yet  wist  full  well 
How  the  Prince  looked  and  spoke ;  unwittingly, 
With  the  strange  female  sense  and  secret  eye, 

Made  of  him  there  her  subtle  estimate, 

Forecast  his  lot,  and  thought  how  all  things  flow 

To  those  who  have  a  surfeit.    Could  the  great, 
The  perfect  Queen,  she  marvelled,  truly  know 

And  love  him  at  his  value  ?    In  his  turn, 

He  read  her  face  as  't  were  a  marble  urn 

Embossed  with  Truth  and  blushful  Innocence, 
Yet  with  the  wild  Loves  carven  in  repose  ; 

And  as  he  looked  he  felt,  and  knew  not  whence, 

A  thought  like  this  come  as  the  wind  that  blows: 
u  A  face  to  lose  one's  life  for;  aye,  and  more, 

To  live  for !  "  —  So  they  reached  the  sculptured  door 

And  casements  gilded  with  the  dying  light. 

That  eve  the  host  spread  out  a  stately  board, 
And  with  his  household  far  into  the  night 

Feasted  the  Prince.    The  lady,  next  her  lord, 
Drooped  like  a  musk-rose  trained  beside  a  tomb. 
Loath  was  the  guest  that  night  to  seek  his  room. 


AH  !  wherefore  tell  again  an  oft-told  tale,  — 
That  of  the  sleeping  knight  who  lost  his  wage 

In  the  enchanted  land,  though  cased  with  mail, 
And  bore  the  sacred  shrine  an  empty  gage  ? 

How  this  thing  went  it  were  not  worth  to  view 

But  for  the  triple  coil  which  thence  outgrew ; 

How,  with  the  morn,  the  ancient  chamberlain 
Made  off,  and  on  the  marriage  business  moved 
266 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

How  day  by  day  those  young  hearts  fed  amain 
Upon  the  food  of  lovers,  till  —  they  loved. 
Beneath  the  mists  of  duty  and  degree 
A  warmth  of  passion  crept  deliciously 

About  the  twain  ;  and  there,  within  the  gleam 
Of  those  gray  languid  eyes,  his  nearing  fate 

Seemed  to  the  one  a  far,  unquiet  dream. 

So  when  the  heralds  said,  "  All  things  await 

Your  princely  coming,"  the  glad  summons  broke 

Upon  him  like  a  harsh  bell's  jangling  stroke, 

And  waked  him,  and  he  knew  he  must  be  gone 
And  put  that  honeyed  chalice  quite  away  ; 

Yet  once  more  met  the  lady,  and  alone, 

It  chanced,  within  the  grounds.    The  two,  that  day, 

Lured  by  a  falling  water's  sound,  went  deep 

Beyond  the  sunlight,  in  the  forest-keep. 

Here  from  a  range  of  wooded  uplands  leapt 

A  mountain  brook  and  far-off  meadows  sought ; 

Now  under  firs  and  tasselled  chestnuts  crept, 
Then  on  through  jagged  rocks  a  passage  fought, 

Until  it  clove  this  shadowy  gorge  and  cool 

In  one  white  cataract,  —  with  a  dark,  broad  pool 

Beneath,  the  home  of  mottled  trout.    One  side 
Rose  the  cliff's  hollowed  height,  and  overhung 

An  open  sward  across  that  basin  wide. 

The  liberal  sun  through  slanting  larches  flung 

Rich  spots  of  gold  upon  the  tufted  ground, 

And  the  great  royal  forest  gloomed  around. 

The  Prince,  divided  from  the  world  so  far, 

Sat  with  the  lady  on  a  fallen  tree; 
They  looked  like  lovers,  yet  a  prison-bar 

Between  them  had  not  made  the  two  less  free. 

26- 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Only  their  eyes  told  what  they  could  not  say, 
For  still  their  lips  spoke  alien  words  that  day. 

She  told  a  legend  of  an  early  king 

Who  knew  the  fairy  of  this  wildwood  glen, 

And  often  sought  her  haunt,  far  off  to  fling 
His  grandeur,  and  be  loved  like  common  men. 

He  died  long  since,  the  lady  said;  but  she, 

Who  could  not  die,  how  weary  she  must  be  ! 

They  talked  of  the  strange  beauty  of  the  spot, 
The  light  that  glinted  through  the  ancient  trees, 

Their  own  young  lives,  the  Prince's  future  lot; 
Then  jested  with  false  laughs.    Like  tangled  bees, 

Each  other  and  themselves  they  sweetly  stung; 

They  sung  fond  songs,  and  mocked  the  words  they  sung. 

At  last  he  hung  his  picture  by  a  chain 

About  her  neck,  and  on  it  graved  the  date. 

Her  merry  eyes  grew  soft  with  tender  pain; 
She  heard  him  sigh,  "Alas,  by  what  rude  fate 

Our  lives,  like  ships  at  sea,  an  instant  meet, 

Then  part  forever  on  their  courses  fleet  !  " 

And  in  sheer  pity  of  herself  she  dropped 

Her  lovely  head;  and,  though  with  self  she  strove, 

One  hot  tear  fell.    The  shadow,  which  had  stopped 
On  her  life's  dial,  moved  again,  and  Love 

Went  sobbing  by,  and  only  left  his  wraith ; 

For  both  were  loyal  to  their  given  faith. 

Farewells  they  breathed  and  self-reproaches  found, 

Half  gliding  with  the  current  to  the  fall, 
Yet  struggling  for  the  shore.    Was  she  not  bound  ? 

Did  not  his  plighted  future,  like  a  wall, 
Jut  'cross  the  stream  ?    They  feared  themselves,  and  rose, 
And  through  the  forest  gained  the  mansion-close 

268 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Unmissed,  and  parted  thus,  nor  met  anew; 

For  on  the  morrow,  when  the  Prince  took  horse, 
The  lady  feigned  an  illness,  or  't  was  true,  — 

Yet  maybe  from  her  oriel  marked  his  course, 
Watching  his  plume,  that  into  distance  past, 
Like  some  dear  sail  which  sinks  from  sight  at  last. 

He  rode  beneath  their  arch,  where  pennons  flared 
And  standards  with  his  colors  blazoned  in. 

Then  thousands  shouted  welcome;  trumpets  blared; 
He  felt  the  glories  of  his  life  begin  ! 

Far,  far  behind,  that  eddy  in  its  stream 

Now  seemed;  its  vanished  shores,  in  turn,  a  dream. 

Enough;  he  passed  the  ways  and  reached  the  Queen. 

With  pomp  and  pageantry  the  vows  were  said. 
Leave  to  the  chroniclers  the  storied  scene, 

The  church,  the  court,  the  masks  and  jousts  that  sped; 
Not  theirs,  but  ours,  to  follow  Love  apart, 
Where  first  the  bridegroom  held  his  bride  to  heart, 

• 
And  saw  her  purity  and  regnant  worth 

Thus  kept  for  him  and  yielded  to  his  care. 
What  marvel  that  of  all  who  dwelt  on  earth 

He  seemed  most  fortunate  and  she  most  fair 
That  self-same  hour  ?  And  "  By  God's  grace,"  he  thought, 
44  May  I  to  some  ignoble  end  be  brought, 

u  Unless  I  so  reward  her  for  her  choice, 

And  shape  my  future  conduct  in  this  land 
By  her  deserving,  that  the  world's  great  voice 
Proclaim  me  not  unworthy !    Let  my  hand 
Henceforward  make  her  tasks  its  own ;  my  life 
Be  merged  in  this  fair  ruler,  precious  wife, 

44  The  paragon  and  glory  of  her  kind  !  " 

Who  reads  his  own  heart  will  not  think  it  strange 
269 


THE    BLAMELESS  '  PRINCE 

He  put  that  yester  romance  from  his  mind 

So  readily.    Men's  lives,  like  oceans,  change 
In  shifting  tides,  and  ebb  from  either  shore 
Till  the  strong  planet  draws  them  on  once  more. 


AND  as  a  pilgrim,  shielded  by  the  wings 

Of  some  bright  angel,  crosses  perilous  ground, 

Through  unknown  ways,  and,  while  she  leads  and  sings, 
P^orgets  the  past,  nor  sees  what  pits  surround 

His  footsteps,  so  the  young  Prince  cast  away 

That  self-distrust,  and  with  his  sovereign  May 

The  gladness  joined,  and  with  her  sat  in  state 
Beneath  the  ancient  scutcheons  of  her  throne, 

And  welcome  gave,  and  led  the  revels  late; 

But  when  the  still  and  midnight  heavens  shone 

They  fled  the  masquers,  and  the  city's  hum 

Was  silent,  and  the  palace  halls  grew  dumb, 

And  Love  and  Sleep  in  that  serene  eclipse 

Moved,  making  prince  and  clown  of  one  degree, 

Then  was  she  all  his  own  ;  then  from  her  lips 
He  learned  with  what  a  sweet  humility 

She,  whose  least  word  a  spacious  kingdom  ruled, 

In  Love's  free  vassalage  would  fain  be  schooled. 

How  poor,  she  said,  her  sovereignty  seemed, 

Unless  it  made  her  richer  in  his  eye  ! 
And  poor  his  life,  until  her  sunlight  beamed 

Upon  it,  said  the  Prince.  So  months  went  by ; 
They  were  a  gracious  pair;  the  Queen  was  glad; 
Peace  smiled,  and  the  wide  land  contentment  had. 

And  for  a  time  the  courteous  welcome  paid 
The  chosen  consort,  and  the  people's  joy 
270 


THE    BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

In  the  Queen's  joy,  kept  silent  those  who  weighed 

The  Prince's  make,  and  sought  to  find  alloy 
In  his  fine  gold  ;   but,  when  the  freshness  fled 
From  these  things  told,  some  took  new  thought  and  said  : 

"  Look  at  the  Queen:  her  heart  is  wholly  set 

Upon  the  Prince  !   what  if  he  warp  her  mind 
To  errant  policies,  and  rule  us  yet 

By  proxy  ?  "  "  What  and  if  he  prove  the  kind 
Of  trifling  gallant,"  others  said,  "to  slight 
Our  mistress,  for  each  new  and  base  delight  ? 

"  Ay,  we  will  watch  him,  lest  he  do  her  wrong  !  " 

And  his  due  station,  even  from  the  first, 
The  peers  of  haughty  rank  and  lineage  long, 

Jealous  of  one  whose  blossom  at  a  burst 
Outflamed  their  own,  begrudged  him  ;   till  their  pique 
Grew  plain,  and  sent  proud  color  to  his  cheek. 

So  now  he  fared  as  some  new  actor  fares, 

Who  through  dark  arras  gains  the  open  boards, 

Facing  the  lights,  and  feels  a  thousand  stares 

Come  full  upon  him;  and  the  great  throng  hoards 

Its  plaudits;   and,  as  he  begins  his  tale, 

His  rivals  wait  to  mock  him  if  he  fail. 

But  here  a  brave  simplicity  of  soul 

And  careless  vigilance,  by  honor  bred, 
Stayed  him,  and  o'er  his  actions  held  control. 

A  host  of  generous  virtues  stood  in  stead, 
To  help  him  on;   with  patient  manliness 
He  kept  his  rank,  no  greater  and  no  less; 

His  life  was  as  a  limpid  rivulet; 

His  thoughts,  like  golden  sands,  were  through  it  seen, 
Not  on  himself  in  poor  ambition  set, 

But  on  his  chosen  country  and  the  Queen; 

271 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  with  such  gentle  tact  he  bore  a  sense 
Of  conduct  due,  nor  took  nor  gave  offence, 

That,  as  time  went,  he  earned  their  trust,  who  first 
Withheld  it  him,  and  brought  them,  one  by  one, 

To  seek  him  for  a  comrade;   but  he  nursed 

His  friendships  with  such  equal  care  that  none 

Could  claim  him  as  their  own;  nor  was  his  word 

Of  counsel  dulled  by  being  often  heard; 

Nor  would  he  sully  his  fresh  youth  among 
The  roisterers  and  pretty  wanton  dames 

Who  strove  to  win  him;  nor  with  ribald  tongue 
Joined  in  the  talk  that  round  a  palace  flames; 

Nor  came  and  went  alone,  save  —  't  was  his  wont 

In  his  own  land  — he  haply  left  the  hunt 

On  forest  days,  and,  plunging  down  the  wood, 
There  in  the  brakes  and  copses  half  forgot 

The  part  he  bore,  and  caught  anew  the  mood 
Of  youth,  and  felt  a  heart  for  any  lot ; 

Then,  loitering  cityward  behind  the  train, 

With  fresher  courage  took  his  place  again. 

His  pure  life  made  the  wits  about  the  court 

Find  in  its  very  blamelessness  a  fault 
That  lacked  the  generous  failings  of  their  sort. 

u  With  so  much  sweet,"  they  swore,  "  a  grain  of  salt 
Were  welcome  !   lighter  tongue  and  freer  mood 
Were  something  more  of  man,  if  less  of  prude  !  " 

And  others  to  his  praises  would  oppose 

Suspicion  of  his  prowess,  and  they  said, 
u  Our  rose  of  princes  is  a  thornless  rose, 

A  woman's  toy  !  "  and,  when  the  months  were  sped, 
And  the  glad  Queen  was  childed  with  a  son, 
Light  jests  upon  his  mission  well  begun 
272 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

They  bandied ;  yet  the  Prince,  who  felt  the  sting, 
Bided  his  time.    Till  on  the  land  there  brake 

A  sudden  warfare ;  for  that  haughty  king, 
Gathering  a  mighty  armament  to  take 

Revenge  for  his  lost  suit,  with  sword  and  flame 

Against  the  borders  on  short  pretext  came. 

Then  with  hot  haste  the  Queen's  whole  forces  poured 
To  meet  him.    With  the  call  to  horse  and  blade 

The  Prince,  deep-chafed  in  spirit,  placed  his  sword 
At  orders  of  the  General,  and  prayed 

A  humble  station,  but,  as  due  his  rank, 

Next  in  command  was  made,  and  led  the  flank. 

And  so  with  doubtful  poise  a  fierce  war  raged, 
Till  on  a  day  encountered  face  to  face 

The  two  chief  hosts,  and  dreadful  battle  waged 
To  close  the  issue.    In  its  opening  space 

Death  smote  the  General,  and  in  tumult  sore 

The  line  sank  back ;  but  swiftly,  at  the  fore 

Placing  himself,  the  Prince  right  onward  hurled 
The  strife  once  more,  and  with  his  battle-shout 

Woke  victory  ;  again  his  forces  whirled 

The  hostile  troops,  and  drove  them  on  in  rout. 

The  strength  of  ten  battalions  seemed  to  yield 

Before  his  arm ;  and  so  he  won  that  field, 

And  slew  with  his  own  hand  the  vengeful  king, 

And  with  that  death-stroke  brought  the  war  to  end, 

Conquering  the  common  foe,  and  conquering 
The  hate,  from  which  he  would  not  else  defend 

His  clear  renown  than  with  such  manful  deeds 

As  fall  to  faith  and  valor  at  their  needs. 

Again  —  this  time  the  chaplet  was  his  own  — 
The  people  wreathed  their  laurels  for  his  brow  ; 
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THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

His  horses  trod  on  flowers ;  the  city  shone 

With  flags  of  victory  ;  and  none  but  now  — 
As  with  no  vaunting  mien  he  wore  his  bays  — 
Confessed  him  brave  as  good,  and  gave  their  praise. 


PEACE  smiled  anew ;  the  kingdom  was  at  rest. 

Ah,  happy  Queen !  whom  every  matron's  tongue 
Ran  envious  of,  with  such  a  consort  blest 

As  wins  the  heart  of  women,  old  and  young; 
So  gallant,  yet  so  good,  the  gentlest  maid 
By  this  fair  standard  her  own  suitor  weighed. 

I  hold  the  perfect  mating  of  two  souls, 

Through  wedded  love,  to  be  the  sum  of  bliss. 

When  Earth,  this  fruit  that  ripens  as  it  rolls 

In  sunlight,  grows  more  prime,  lives  will  not  miss 

Their  counterparts,  and  each  shall  find  its  own ; 

But  now  with  what  blind  chance  the  lots  are  thrown  ! 

And  because  Love  sets  with  a  rising  tide 

Along  the  drift  where  much  has  gone  before 

One  holds  of  worth,  —  we  lavish  first,  beside, 
Heart,  honors,  regal  gifts,  and  love  the  more 

When  yielding  most, —  for  this  the  Queen's  love  knew 

No  slack,  but  still  its  current  deeper  grew. 

And  because  Love  is  free,  and  follows  not 
On  gratitude,  nor  comes  from  what  is  given 

So  much  as  on  the  giving ;  and,  I  wot, 
Partly  because  it  irks  one  to  have  thriven 

At  hands  which  seem  the  weaker,  and  should  thrive 

While  those  of  him  they  cling  to  lift  and  strive ; 

And  partly  that  his  marriage  seemed  a  height 

Which  raised  him  from  the  passions  of  our  kind, 

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THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Nor  with  his  own  intent;  and  that,  despite 

Its  clear  repose,  he  somehow  longed  to  find 
The  lower  world,  starve,  hunger,  and  be  fed 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  sweet  and  bitter  bread,— 

For  all  these  things  the  Prince  loved  not  the  Queen 
With  that  sufficience  which  alone  can  take 

A  rapture  in  itself  and  rest  serene ; 

Yet  knew  not  what  his  life  lacked  that  should  make 

It  worth  to  live,  —  our  custom  has  such  art 

To  dull  the  craving  of  the  famished  heart,— 

Perchance  had  never  known  it,  but  a  light 
Flashed  in  his  path  and  lit  a  fiery  train 

About  him ;  else,  day  following  day,  and  night 

By  night,  through  years  his  soul  had  felt  no  pain, 

No  triumph,  but  had  shared  the  common  lull, 

Been  all  it  seemed,  as  blameless,  true,  and  dull. 

And  yet  in  one  fair  woman  beauty,  youth, 
And  passion  were  united,  and  her  love 

Was  framed  about  his  likeness.   Some,  forsooth, 
May  shift  their  changeful  worship  as  they  rove, 

Or  clowns  or  princes  ;  but  her  fancy  slept, 

Dreaming  upon  that  picture  which  she  kept, 

A  secret  pain  and  pleasance.  With  what  strife , 
Men  sought  her  love  she  wist  not,  for  the  prize 

Was  not  for  them.  She  lived  a  duteous  life. 

'Twas  something  thus  to  let  her  constant  eyes 

Feed  on  his  face,  to  hear  his  name,  —  to  know 

He  lived,  had  walked  those  paths,  had  loved  her  so. 

There  is  a  painting  of  a  youthful  monk 

Who  sits  within  a  walled  and  cloistered  nook, 

His  breviary  closed,  and  listens,  sunk 
In  day-dreams,  to  a  viol,  —  with  a  look 
275 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Of  strange  regret  fixed  on  two  pairing  doves, 
Who  find  their  fate  and  simple  natural  loves. 

Yet  bonds  of  gold,  linked  hands,  and  chancel  vows, 
Even  spousal  beds,  do  not  a  marriage  make. 

When  such  things  chain  the  soul  that  never  knows 
Love's  mating,  little  vantage  shall  it  take, 

Wandering  with  alien  feet  throughout  the  wide, 

Hushed  temple,  over  those  who  pine  outside  ! 

So  this  young  wife  forecast  her  horoscope 
And  found  its  wedded  lines  of  little  worth, 

Yet  owned  not  to  herself  what  hopeless  hope 
Or  dumb  intent  made  green  her  spot  of  earth. 

So  passed  three  changeless  years,  as  such  years  be ; 

At  last  the  old  lord  died,  and  left  her  free, 

The  mistress  of  his  rank  and  broad  estate, 
In  honor  of  her  constancy.    Then  life 

Rushed  back ;  she  saw  her  beauty  grown  more  great, 
Ripened  as  if  a  summer  field  were  rife 

With  grain,  the  harvester  neglectful,  since 

Hers  was  no  mean  desire  that  sought  a  prince, 

Eager  to  make  his  birth  and  bloom  her  own, 

Or  reign  a  wanton  favorite.   But  she  thought, 
u  I  might  have  loved  and  clung  to  him  alone, 

Am  fairer  than  he  knew  me  ;  yet,  if  aught 
Of  rarity  make  sweet  my  hair  and  lips, 
What  sweetness  hath  the  honey  that  none  sips  ?  " 

After  her  time  of  mourning  she  grew  bold, 
And  said,  "  Once  let  me  look  upon  his  face ! 

The  Queen  will  take  no  harm  if  I  behold 

What  all  the  world  can  see."  She  left  her  place, 

And  with  a  kinsman,  at  a  palace  rout, 

Followed  the  long  line  passing  in  and  out 

276 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Before  the  dais.  The  Prince's  eyes  and  hers 
Met  like  the  clouds  that  lighten.   In  a  breath 

Swift  memory  flamed  between  them,  as,  when  stirs 
No  wind,  and  the  dark  sky  is  still  as  death, 

One  lance  of  living  fire  is  hurled  across  ; 

Then  comes  the  whirlwind,  and  the  forests  toss  ! 

Yet  as  she  bent  her  beauteous  shoulders  down, 
And  heard  the  kindly  greeting  of  the  Queen, 

He  spoke  such  words  as  one  who  wears  a  crown 
Speaks,  and  no  more ;  and  with  a  low,  proud  mien 

She  murmured  answer,  from  the  presence  past 

Lightly,  nor  any  look  behind  her  cast. 

In  that  first  glimpse  each  read  the  other's  heart ; 

But  not  without  a  summoning  of  himself 
To  judgment  did  the  Prince  forever  part 

From  truth  and  fealty.  As  he  pondered,  still 
With  stronger  voice  Love  claimed  a  debt  unpaid, 
And  youth's  hot  pulses  would  not  be  gainsaid. 

She  with  a  fierce,  full  gladness  saw  again 
Their  broken  threads  of  love  begin  to  spin 

In  one  red  strand,  and  let  it  guide  her  then, 
Whether  it  led  to  danger  or  to  sin  ; 

And  shortly,  on  the  morrow,  took  the  road, 

And  gained  her  country-seat,  and  there  abode. 

The  Prince,  a  bright  near  morning,  mounted  horse 
Garbed  for  the  hunt,  and  left  the  town,  and  through 

The  deep-pathed  wood  rode  on  a  wayward  course, 
With  a  set  purpose  in  him,  —  though  he  knew 

It  not,  and  let  his  steed  go  where  it  might; 

For  this  sole  thought  pursued  him  since  that  night :  — 

"  What  recompense  for  me  who  have  not  sown 
The  seed  and  reaped  the  harvest  of  my  days  ? 

277 


THE   BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

Youth  passes  like  a  bird;  but  love  alone 

Makes  wealth  of  riches,  power  of  rank,  men's  praise 
A  goodly  sound.    Of  such  things  have  I  aught  ? 
There  is  a  foil  to  make  their  substance  naught. 

u  What  were  his  gifts  who  made  each  lovely  thing, 
Yet  lacked  the  gift  of  love  ?   or  what  the  fame 
Of  some  dwarfed  poet,  whose  numbers  still  we  sing, 

If  no  fair  woman  trembled  where  he  came  ? 
The  beggar  dying  in  ditch  is  not  accurst 
If  love  once  crowned  him !    Fate  may  do  her  worst. 

"  For  Age  that  erst  had  drawn  the  wine  of  love 

And  filled  its  birth-cup  to  the  jewelled  brim, 
And,  while  it  sparkled,  held  it  high  above, 

And  drained  it  slowly,  swiftly,  —  then,  though  dim 
Grow  the  blurred  eyes,  and  comfort  and  desire 
Are  but  the  ashes  of  their  ancient  fire, 

"  Yet  will  it  bide  its  exit  in  content, 

Remembering  the  past,  nor  grudge,  with  hoar 

And  ravenous  look,  the  youth  we  have  not  spent. 
No  earthly  sting  has  power  to  harm  it  more; 

It  lived  and  loved,  was  young,  and  now  is  old, 

And  life  is  rounded  like  a  ring  of  gold." 

Thereat  with  sudden  rein  the  Prince  wheeled  horse, 
And  sought  a  pathway  that  he  long  had  known 

Yet  shunned  till  now.    Beside  a  watercourse 
It  led  him  for  a  winding  league  and  lone; 

Then  made  a  rugged  circuit,  —  where  the  brook 

Down  a  steep  ledge  of  rock  its  plunges  took, — 

And  ended  at  an  open  sward,  the  same 

Against  whose  edge  the  leaping  cataract  fell 

From  those  high  cliffs.   Five  years  ago  he  came 
To  bury  youth  and  love  within  that  dell, 

278 


THE    BLAiMELESS    PRINCE 

And,  as  again  he  reached  the  spot  he  sought, 

Truth,  fame,  his  child,  the  Queen,  were  all  as  naught. 

Dismounting  then,  he  pushed  afoot,  between 
The  alder  saplings,  to  the  outer  wood, 

The  grounds,  the  garden-walks,  and  found,  unseen, 
A  private  door,  nor  tarried  till  he  stood 

Within  the  threshold  of  my  Lady's  room,  — 

A  shadowed  nook,  all  stillness  and  perfume. 

Jasmine  and  briony  the  lattice  climbed, 
The  rose  and  honeysuckle  trailed  above; 

'T  was  such  an  hour  as  poets  oft  have  rhymed, 
And  such  a  chamber  as  all  lovers  love. 

He  found  her  there,  and  at  her  footstool  knelt. 

Each  in  the  other's  fancies  had  so  dwelt, 

That,  as  one  sees  for  days  a  sweet  strange  face, 
Until  at  night  in  dreams  he  does  caress 

Its  owner,  and  next  morning  in  some  place 
Meets  her,  and  wonders  if  she  too  can  guess 

How  near  and  known  he  thinks  her,  —  in  this  wise 

They  read  one  story  in  each  other's  eyes. 

Her  thick  hair  falling  from  its  lilies  hid 

Their  first  long  kiss  of  passion  and  content. 

He  heard  her  soft,  glad  murmur,  as  she  slid 
Within  his  hold,  and  'gainst  his  bosom  leant, 

Whispering:  "At  last!  at  last!  the  years  were  sore." 
"  Their  spite,"  he  said,  "  shall  do  us  wrong  no  more  !  " 

What  else,  when  mingled  longings  swell  full-tide, 
And  the  heart's  surges  leap  their  bounds  for  aye, 

And  fell  the  landmarks  ?    What  but  fate  defied, 
Time  clutched,  and  any  future  held  at  bay  ? 

They  recked  not  of  the  thorn,  but  seized  the  flower ; 

For  all  the  sin,  their  joy  was  great  that  hour. 
279 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  since,  for  all  the  joy,  theirs  was  a  sin 

That  baned  them  with  one  bane ;   since  many  men 

Had  sought  her  love,  but  one  alone  could  win 
That  largess,  with  his  blameless  life  till  then 

Inviolate,  —  they  bargained  for  love's  sake 

No  severance  of  their  covert  league  to  make. 

Yet,  since  nobility  compelled  them  still, 

They  pledged  themselves  for  honor's  sake  to  hold 

This  hidden  unto  death ;  at  cither's  will 
To  meet  and  part  in  secret ;  to  infold 

In  their  own  hearts  their  trespass  and  delight, 

Nor  look  their  love,  but  guard  it  day  or  night. 


So  fell  the  blameless  Prince.    That  day  more  late 
Than  wont  he  reached  the  presence  of  the  Queen, 

Deep  in  a  palace  chamber,  where  she  sate 

Fondling  his  child.    The  sunset  lit  her  mien, 

And  made  a  saintly  glory  in  her  hair ; 

An  awe  came  on  him  as  he  saw  her  there. 

And,  because  perfect  love  suspecteth  not, 

She  found  no  blot  upon  his  brow.  'T  was  good 

To  take  a  pleasure  in  her  wedded  lot, 

And  watch  the  infant  creeping  where  he  stood ; 

And,  as  he  bent  his  head,  she  little  wist 

What  kisses  burned  upon  the  lips  she  kissed. 

And  he,  still  kind  and  wise  in  his  decline, 
Seeing  her  trustful  calm,  had  little  heart 

To  shake  it.   So  his  conduct  gave  no  sign 
Of  broken  faith  ;   no  slurring  of  his  part 

Betrayed  him  to  the  courtiers  or  the  wife. 

Perhaps  a  second  spring-time  in  his  life 
280 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Waxed  green,  and  fresh-bloomed  love  renewed  again 
The  joys  that  light  our  youth  and  leave  our  prime, 

And  women  found  him  tenderer,  and  men 
A  blither,  heartier  comrade  ;  but,  meantime, 

What  hidden  gladness  made  his  visage  bright 

They  could  not  guess  ;   nor  with  what  craft  and  sleight 

The  paramours,  in  fealty  to  that  Love 

Who  laughs  at  locks  and  walks  in  hooded  guise, 

Met  here  and  there,  yet  made  no  careless  move 
Nor  bared  their  strategy  to  cunning  eyes. 

And  though,  a  portion  of  the  winter  year, 

The  Queen's  own  summons  brought  her  rival  near 

The  Prince,  among  the  ladies  of  her  train, 

Then,  meeting  face  to  face  at  morn  and  night, 

They  were  as  strangers.    If  it  was  a  pain 
To  pass  so  coldly  on,  in  love's  despite, 

It  was  a  joy  to  hear  each  other's  tone, 

And  keep  the  life-long  secret  still  their  own. 

Once  having  dipped  their  palms  they  drank  full  draught, 
And,  like  the  desert-parched,  alone  at  first 

Felt  the  delight  of  drinking,  while  they  quaffed 
As  if  the  waters  could  not  slake  their  thirst ; 

That  nicer  sense  unreached,  when  down  we  fling, 

And  view  the  oasis  around  the  spring. 

And,  in  that  first  bewilderment,  perchance 

The  Prince's  lapse  had  caught  some  peering  eye, 

But  that  his  long  repute,  and  maintenance 
Against  each  test,  had  put  suspicion  by. 

Now  no  one  watched  or  doubted  him.    So  long 

His  inner  strength  had  made  his  outwork  strong, 

So  long  had  smoothed  his  face,  't  was  light  to  take, 
From  what  had  been  his  blamelessness,  a  mask. 
281 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  still,  for  honor's  and  the  country's  sake, 

He  set  his  hands  to  every  noble  task ; 
Held  firmly  yet  his  place  among  the  great, 
Won  by  the  sword  and  saviour  of  the  state ; 

And  as  in  war,  so  now  in  civic  peace, 

He  led  the  people  on  to  higher  things, 
And  fostered  Art  and  Song,  and  brought  increase 

Of  Knowledge,  gave  to  Commerce  broader  wings, 
And  with  his  action  strengthened  fourfold  more 
The  weight  his  precept  in  their  councils  bore. 

Then  as  the  mellow  years  their  fruitage  brought, 

And  fair  strong  children  made  secure  the  throne, 
He  reared  them  wisely,  needfully ;  and  sought 

Their  good,  the  Queen's  desire,  and  these  alone. 
Himself  so  pure,  that  fathers  bade  their  sons, 
u  Observe  the  Prince,  who  every  license  shuns ; 

u  Who,  being  most  brave,  is  purest !  "   Wedded  wives, 

Happy  themselves,  the  Queen  still  happiest  found, 
And  plighted  maids  still  wished  their  lovers'  lives 

Conformed  to  his.   Such  manhood  wrapt  him  round, 
So  winsome  were  his  grace  and  knightly  look, 
The  dames  at  court  their  lesser  spoil  forsook, 

And  wove  a  net  to  snare  him,  and  their  mood 
Grew  warmer  for  his  coldness;  and  the  hearts 

Of  those  most  heartless  beat  with  quicker  blood, 
Foiled  of  his  love;  yet,  heedless  of  their  arts, 

Courteous  to  all,  he  went  his  way  content, 

Nor  ever  from  his  princely  station  bent. 

"  What    is    this    charm,"    they  asked,  "  that  makes  him 

chaste 
Beyond  all  men  ?"  and  wist  not  what  they  said. 

282 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

The  common  folk, —  because  the  Prince  had  cased 

His  limbs  in  silver  mail,  and  on  his  head 
Worn  snowy  plumes,  and,  covered  thus  in  white, 
Shone  in  the  fiercest  turmoil  of  the  fight ; 

And  mostly  for  the  whiteness  of  his  soul, 

Which  seemed  so  virginal  and  all  unblurred,  — 
They   called   him   the   White    Prince,  and  through   the 

whole 

True  land  the  name  became  a  household  word. 
"  God  save  the  Queen  !  "  the  loyal  people  sung, 
"  And  the  White  Prince  !  "  came  back  from  every  tongue. 

So  passed  the  stages  of  a  glorious  reign. 

The  Queen  in  tranquil  goodness  reached  her  noon ; 
The  Prince  wore  year  by  year  his  double  chain ; 

His  mistress  kept  her  secret  like  the  moon, 
That  hides  one  half  its  splendor  and  its  shade ; 
And  newer  times  and  men  their  entrance  made. 

But  did  these  two,  who  took  their  secret  fill 

Of  stolen  waters,  find  the  greater  bliss 
They  sought  ?    At  first,  to  meet  and  part  at  will 

Was,  for  the  peril's  sake,  a  happiness  ; 
Ay,  even  the  sense  of  guilt  made  such  delights 
More  worth,  as  one  we  call  the  wisest  writes. 

But  with  the  later  years  Time  brought  about 
His  famed  revenges.    Not  that  love  grew^cold, 

The  lady  never  found  a  cause  to  doubt 

That  with  the  Prince  his  passion  kept  its  hold ; 

And  while  their  loved  are  loyal  to  them  yet, 

'T  is  not  the  wont  of  women  to  regret. 

Yet  't  was  her  lot  to  live  as  one  whose  wealth 
Is  in  another's  name ;  to  sigh  at  fate 

283 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

That  hedged  her  from  possession,  save  by  stealth 

And  trespass  on  the  guileless  Queen's  estate; 
To  see  her  lover  furthest  when  most  near, 
Nor  dare  before  the  world  to  make  him  dear. 

To  see  her  perfect  beauty  but  a  lure, 

That  made  men  list  to  follow  where  she  went, 

And  kneel  to  woo  the  hand  they  deemed  so  pure, 
And  hunger  for  her  pitying  mouth's  consent ; 

Calling  her  hard,  who  was  so  gently  made, 

Nor  found  delight  in  all  their  homage  paid. 

Nor  ever  yet  was  woman's  life  complete 

Till  at  her  breast  the  child  of  him  she  loved 

Made  life  and  love  one  name.    Though  love  be  sweet, 
And  passing  sweet,  till  then  its  growth  has  proved 

In  woman's  paradise  a  sterile  tree, 

Fruitless,  though  fair  its  leaves  and  blossoms  be. 

Meanwhile  the  Prince  put  on  his  own  disguise, 
Holding  it  naught  for  what  it  kept  secure, 

Nor  wore  it  only  in  his  comrades'  eyes ; 
Beneath  this  cloak  and  seeming  to  be  pure 

He  felt  the  thing  he  seemed.    Eor  some  brief  space 

His  conscience  took  the  reflex  of  his  face. 

But  lastly  through  his  heart  there  crept  a  sense 
Of  falseness,  like  a  worm  about  the  core, 

Until  he  grew  to  loathe  the  long  pretence 

Of  blamelessness  and  would  the  mask  he  wore 

By  some  swift  judgment  from  his  face  were  torn, 

So  might  the  outer  quell  the  inner  scorn. 

Such  self-contempt  befell  him,  when  the  feast 

Rang  with  his  praise,  he  blushed  from  nape  to  crown, 

And  ground  his  teeth  in  silence,  yet  had  ceased 
To  bear  it,  crying,  "  Crush  me  not  quite  down, 
284 


THE   BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

Who  ask  your  scorn,  as  viler  than  you  deem 
Your  vilest,  and  am  nothing  that  I  seem !  " 

With  such  a  cry  his  conscience  riotous 

Had  thrown,  perchance,  the  burden  on  it  laid, 

But  love  and  pity  held  his  voice ;  and  thus 
The  paramours  their  constant  penance  made ; 

False  to  themselves,  before  the  world  a  lie, 

Yet  each  for  each  had  cast  the  whole  world  by. 

In  those  transcendent  moments,  when  the  fire 
Leapt  up  between  them  rapturous  and  bright, 

One  incompleteness  bred  a  wild  desire 
To  let  the  rest  have  token  of  its  light ; 

So  natural  seemed  their  love, —  so  hapless,  too, 

They  might  not  make  it  glorious  to  view, 

And  speak  their  joy.    'T  was  all  as  they  had  come, 
They  two,  in  some  far  wildwood  wandering  mazed, 

Upon  a  mighty  cataract,  whose  foam 

And  splendor  ere  that  time  had  never  dazed 

Men's  eyes,  nor  any  hearing  save  their  own 

Could  listen  to  its  immemorial  moan, 

And  felt  amid  their  triumph  bitter  pain 

That  only  for  themselves  was  spread  that  sight. 

Oft,  when  his  comrades  sang  a  tender  strain, 
And  music,  talk,  and  wine  outlasted  night, 

Rose  in  the  Prince's  throat  this  sudden  tide, 
"  And  I,  —  I  also  know  where  Love  doth  hide  !  " 

Yet  still  the  seals  were  ever  on  his  mouth ; 

No  heart,  save  one,  his  joy  and  dole  might  share. 
Passed  on  the  winter's  rain  and  summer's  drouth ; 

Friends  more  and  more,  and  lovers  true,  the  pair, 
Though  life  its  passion  and  its  youth  had  spent, 
Still  kept  their  faith  as  seasons  came  and  went. 

285 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

ONE  final  hour,  with  stammering  voice  and  halt, 
The  Prince  said  :  u  Dear,  for  you,  —  whose  only  gain 

Was  in  your  love  that  made  such  long  default 

To  self,  —  Heaven  deems  you  sinless  !    but  a  pain 

Is  on  my  soul,  and  shadow  of  guilt  threefold : 

First,  in  your  fair  life,  fettered  by  my  hold ; 

"  Then  in  the  ceaseless  wrong  I  do  the  Queen, 

Who  worships  me,  unknowing ;  worse  than  all, 
To  wear  before  the  world  this  painted  mien  ! 
See  to  it :  on  my  head  some  bolt  will  fall ! 
We  have  sweet  memories  of  the  good  years  past, 
Now  let  this  secret  league  no  longer  last." 

So  of  her  love  and  pure  unselfishness 

She  yielded  at  his  word,  yet  fain  would  pray 

For  one  more  tryst,  one  day  of  tenderness, 

Where  first  their  lives  were  mated.    Such  a  day 

Found  them  entwined  together,  met  to  part, 

Lips  pressed  to  lips,  and  voiceless  grief  at  heart. 

And  last  the  Prince  drew  ofF  his  signet-stone 
And  gave  it  to  his  mistress,  —  as  he  rose 

To  shut  the  book  of  happy  moments  gone, 
For  so  all  earthly  pleasures  find  a  close,  — 

Yet  promised,  at  her  time  of  utmost  need 

And  summons  by  that  token,  to  take  heed 

And  do  her  will.    "  And  from  this  hour,"  he  said, 
"  No  woman's  kiss  save  one  my  lips  shall  know." 

So  left  her  pale  and  trembling  there,  and  fled, 
Nor  looked  again,  resolved  it  must  be  so ; 

But  somewhere  gained  his  horse,  and  through  the  wood 

Moved  homeward  with  his  thoughts,  a  phantom  brood 

That  turned  the  long  past  over  in  his  mind, 
Poising  its  good  and  evil,  while  a  haze 
286 


THE   BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

Gathered  around  him,  of  that  sombre  kind 

Which  follows  from  a  place  where  many  days 
Have  seen  us  go  and  come ;   and  even  if  sore 
Has  been  our  sojourn  there,  we  feel  the  more 

That  parting  is  a  sorrow,  —  though  we  part 
With  those  who  loved  us  not,  or  go  forlorn 

From  pain  that  ate  its  canker  in  the  heart ; 

But  when  we  leave  the  paths  where  Love  has  borne 

His  garlands  to  us,  Pleasure  poured  her  wine, 

Where  life  was  wholly  precious  and  divine, 

Then  go  we  forth  as  exiles.    In  such  wise 

The  loath,  wan  Prince  his  homeward  journey  made, 

Brooding,  and  marked  not  with  his  downcast  eyes 
The  shadow  that  within  the  coppice  shade 

Sank  darker  still ;  but  at  the  horse's  gait 

Kept  slowly  on,  and  rode  to  meet  his  fate. 

For  from  the  west  a  silent  gathering  drew, 

And  hid  the  summer  sky,  and  brought  swift  night 

Across  that  shire,  and  went  devouring  through 
The  strong  old  forest,  stronger  in  its  might. 

With  the  first  sudden  crash  the  Prince's  steed 

Took  the  long  stride,  and  galloped  at  good  need. 

The  wild  pace  tallied  with  the  rider's  mood, 
And  on  he  spurred,  and  even  now  had  reached 

The  storm  that  charged  the  borders  of  the  wood, 

When  one  great  whirlwind  seized  an  oak  which  bleached 

Across  his  path,  and  felled  it ;   and  its  fall 

Bore  down  the  Prince  beneath  it,  horse  and  all. 

There  lay  he  as  he  fell ;  but  the  mad  horse 

Plunged  out  in  fright,  and  reared  upon  his  feet, 

And  for  the  city  struck  a  headlong  course, 
With  clatter  of  hoof  along  the  central  street, 

287 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

.Nor  halted  till,  thus  masterless  and  late, 
Bleeding  and  torn,  he  reached  the  palace-gate. 

Then  rose  a  clamor  and  the  tidings  spread, 
And  servitors  and  burghers  thronged  about, 

Crying,  "  The  Prince's  horse  !   the  Prince  is  dead  !  " 
Till  on  the  courser's  track  they  sallied  out, 

And  came  upon  the  fallen  oak,  and  found 

The  Prince  sore  maimed  and  senseless  on  the  ground. 

Then  wattling  boughs,  they  raised  him  in  their  hold, 
And  after  that  rough  litter,  and  before, 

The  people  went  in  silence ;  but  there  rolled 
A  fiery  vapor  from  the  lights  they  bore, 

Like  some  red  serpent  huge  along  the  road. 

Even  thus  they  brought  him  back  to  his  abode. 

There  the  pale  Queen  fell  on  him  at  the  porch, 
Dabbling  her  robes  in  blood,  and  made  ado, 

And  over  all  his  henchman  held  a  torch, 

Until  with  reverent  steps  they  took  him  through; 

And  the  doors  closed,  and  midnight  from  the  domes 

Was  sounded,  and  the  people  sought  their  homes. 

But  on  the  morrow,  like  a  dreadful  bird, 
Flew  swift  the  tidings  of  this  sudden  woe, 

And  reached  the  Prince's  paramour,  who  heard 
Aghast,  as  one  who  crieth  loud,  "  The  blow 

Is  fallen  !   I  am  the  cause  !  "  —  as  one  who  saith, 

Now  let  me  die,  whose  hands  have  given  death  !  " 

So  gat  her  to  the  town  remorsefully, 

White  with  a  mortal  tremor  and  the  sin 

Which  sealed  her  mouth,  and  waited  what  might  be, 
And  watched  the  doors  she  dared  not  pass  within. 

Alas,  poor  lady  !  that  lone  week  of  fears 

Outlived  the  length  of  all  her  former  years. 
288 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Some  days  the  Prince,  upon  the  skirts  of  death, 

Spake  not  a  word  nor  heard  the  Queen's  one  prayer, 

Nor  turned  his  face,  nor  felt  her  loving  breath, 
Nor  saw  his  children  when  they  gathered  there, 

But  rested  dumb  and  motionless ;  and  so 

The  Queen  grew  weak  with  watching  and  her  woe, 

Till  from  his  bed  they  bore  her  to  her  own 

A  little.    In  the  middle-tide  of  night, 
Thereafter,  he  awoke  with  moan  on  moan, 

And  saw  his  death  anigh,  and  said  outright, 
c  I  had  all  things,  but  love  was  worth  them  all !  " 
Then  sped  they  for  the  Queen,  yet  ere  the  call 

Reached  her,  he  cried  once  more,  "  Too  late  !  too  late  !  " 
And  at  those  words,  before  they  led  her  in, 

Came  the  sure  dart  of  him  that  lay  in  wait. 

The  Prince  was  dead  :   what  goodness  and  what  sin 

Died  with  him  were  untold.    At  sunrise  fell 

Across  the  capital  his  solemn  knell. 

All  respite  it  forbade,  and  joyance  thence, 

To  one  for  whom  his  passion  till  the  last 
Wrought  in  the  dying  Prince.    Her  wan  suspense 

Thus  ended,  a  great  fear  upon  her  passed. 
u  I  was  the  cause  ! "  she  moaned  from  day  to  day, 
:c  Now  let  me  bear  the  penance  as  I  may  !  " 

So  with  her  whole  estate  she  sought  and  gained 

A  refuge  in  a  nunnery  close  at  view, 
And  there  for  months  withdrew  her,  and  remained 

In  tears  and  prayers.    Anon  a  sickness  grew 
Upon  her,  and  her  face  the  ghost  became 
Of  what  it  was,  the  same  and  not  the  same. 


289 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

So  died  the  blameless  Prince.    The  spacious  land 
Was  smitten  in  his  death,  and  such  a  wail 

Arose,  as  when  the  midnight  angel's  hand 

Was  laid  on  Egypt.    Gossips  ceased  their  tale, 

Or  whispered  of  his  goodness,  and  were  mute ; 

No  sound  was  heard  of  viol  or  of  lute  ; 

The  -streets  were  hung  with  black ;  the  artisan 
Forsook  his  forge ;  the  artist  dropped  his  brush ; 

The  tradesmen  closed  their  windows.    Man  with  man 
Struck  hands  together  in  the  first  deep  hush 

Of  grief;  or,  where  the  dead  Prince  lay  in  state, 

Spoke  of  his  life,  so  blameless,  pure,  and  great. 

But  when,  within  the  dark  cathedral  vault, 
They  joined  his  ashes  to  the  dust  of  kings, 

No  royal  pomp  was  shown  ;   for  Death  made  halt 
Above  the  palace  yet,  on  dusky  wings, 

Waiting  to  gain  the  Queen,  who  still  was  prone 

Along  the  couch  where  haply  she  had  thrown, 

At  knowledge  of  the  end,  her  stricken  frame. 

With  visage  pale  as  in  a  mortal  swound 
She  stayed,  nor  slept,  nor  wept,  till,  weeping,  came 

The  crown-prince  and  besought  her  to  look  round 
And  speak  unto  her  children.    Then  she  said  : 
"  Hereto  no  grief  has  fallen  on  our  head ; 

"  Now  all  our  earthly  portion  in  one  mass 

Is  loosed  against  us  with  this  single  stroke  ! 
Yet  we  are  Queen,  and  still  must  live,  —  alas  !  — 

As  he  would  have  us."    Even  as  she  spoke 
She  wept,  and  mended  thence,  yet  bore  the  face 
Of  one  whose  fate  delays  but  for  a  space. 

Thenceforth  she  worked  and  waited  till  the  call 
Of  Heaven  should  close  the  labor  and  the  pause. 
290 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Months,  seasons  passed,  yet  evermore  a  pall 

Hung  round  the  court.    The  sorrow  and  the  cause 
Were  always  with  her ;  after  things  we're  tame 
Beside  the  shadow  of  his  deeds  and  fame. 

Her  palaces  and  parks  seemed  desolate  ; 

No  joy  was  left  in  sky  or  Street  or  field ; 
No  age,  she  thought,  would  see  the  Prince's  mate  : 

What  matchless  hand  his  knightly  sword  could  wield  ? 
The  world  had  lost,  this  royal  widow  said, 
Its  one  bright  jewel  when  the  Prince  was  dead. 

So  that  his  fame  might  be  enduring  there 

For  many  a  reign,  and  sacred  through  the  land, 

She  gathered  bronze  and  lazuli,  and  rare 

Swart  marbles,  while  her  cunning  artists  planned 

A  stately  cenotaph,  —  and  bade  them  place 

Above  its  front  the  Prince's  form  and  face, 

Sculptured,  as  if  in  life.    But  the  pale  Queen, 

Watching  the  work  herself,  would  somewhat  lure 

Her  heart  from  plaining ;  till,  behind  a  screen, 
The  tomb  was  finished,  glorious  and  pure, 

Even  like  the  Prince :  and  they  proclaimed  a  day 

When  the  Queen's  hand  should  draw  its  veil  away. 

It  chanced,  the  noon  before,  she  bade  them  fetch 
Her  equipage,  and  with  her  children  rode 

Beyond  the  city  walls,  across  a  stretch 
Of  the  green  open  country,  where  abode 

Her  subjects,  happy  in  the  field  and  grange, 

And  with  their  griefs,  that  took  a  meaner  range, 

Content.   But  as  her  joyless  vision  dwelt 

On  beauty  that  so  failed  her  wound  to  heal, 

She  marked  the  Abbey's  ancient  pile,  and  felt 
A  longing  at  its  chapel-shrine  to  kneel, 
291 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

To  pray,  and  think  awhile  on  Heaven,  —  her  one 
Sole  passion,  now  the  Prince  had  thither  gone. 

She  reached  the  gate,  and  through  the  vestibule 
The  nuns,  with  reverence  for  the  royal  sorrow, 

Led  to  the  shrine,  and  left  her  there  to  school 
Her  heart  for  that  sad  pageant  of  the  morrow. 

O,  what  deep  sighs,  what  piteous  tearful  prayers, 

What  golden  grief-blanched  hair  strewn  unawares  ! 

Anon  her  coming  through  the  place  was  sped, 
And  when  from  that  lone  ecstasy  she  rose 

The  saintly  Abbess  held  her  steps,  and  said: 

"  God  rest  those,  daughter,  who  in  others'  woes 

Forget  their  own  !   In  yonder  corridor 

A  sister-sufferer  lies,  and  will  no  more 

"  Pass  through  her  door  to  catch  the  morning's  breath, — 

A  worldling  once,  the  chamberlain's  young  wife, 
But  now  a  pious  novice,  meet  for  death  ; 

She  prays  to  see  your  face  once  more  in  life." 
"  She,  too,  is  widowed,"  thought  the  Queen.  Aloud 
She  answered,  u  I  will  visit  her,"  and  bowed 

Her  head,  and,  following,  reached  the  room  where  lay 
One  that  had  wronged  her  so ;  and  shrank  to  see 

That  beauteous  pallid  face,  so  pined  away, 

And  the  starved  lips  that  murmured  painfully, 
"  I  have  a  secret  none  but  she  may  hear." 

At  the  Queen's  sign,  they  two  were  left  anear. 

With  that  the  dying  rushed  upon  her  speech, 

As  one  condemned,  who  gulps  the  poisoned  wine 

Nor  pauses,  lest  to  see  it  stand  at  reach 

Were  crueller  still.  "  Madam,  I  sought  a  sign," 

She  cried,  "  to  know  if  God  would  have  me  make 

Confession,  and  to  you  !  now  let  me  take 
292 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

u  This  meeting  as  the  sign,  and  speak,  and  die  !  " 

"  Child,"  said  the  Queen,  "  your  years  are  yet  too  few. 
See  how  I  live, —  and  yet  what  sorrows  lie 

About   my  heart."  —  "  I   know,  —  the  world    spake 

true! 

You  too  have  loved  him  :  ay,  he  seems  to  stand 
Between  us  !   Queen,  you  had  the  Prince's  hand, 

"  But  not  his  love  !  "  Across  the  good  Queen's  brow 

A  flame  of  anger  reddened,  as  when  one 
Meets  unprepared  a  swift  and  ruthless  blow, 

But  instant  paled  to  pity,  as  she  thought, 
"  She  wanders  :  't  is  the  fever  at  her  brain  !  " 
And  looked  her  thought.  The  other  cried  again  : 

"Yes  !   I  am  ill  of  body  and  soul  indeed, 
Yet  this  was  as  I  say.   O,  not  for  me 
Pity,  from  you  who  wear  the  widow's  weed, 

Unknowing !  "  —  "  Woman,   whose  could  that  love 

be, 

If  not  all  mine  ?  "  The  other,  with  a  moan, 
Rose  in  her  bed ;  the  pillow,  backward  thrown, 

Was  darkened  with  the  torrent  of  her  hair. 

U'T  was  hers,"  she  wailed,  — "  't  was  hers  who  loved 

him  best." 
Then  tore  apart  her  night-robe,  and  laid  bare 

Her  flesh,  and  lo  !  against  her  poor  white  breast 
Close  round  her  gloomed  a  shift  of  blackest  serge, 
Fearful,  concealed  !  — u  I  might  not  sing  his  dirge," 

She  said,  "  nor  moan  aloud  and  bring  him  shame, 
Nor  haunt  his  tomb  and  cling  about  the  grate, 

But  this  I  fashioned  when  the  tidings  came 
That  he  was  dead  and  I  must  expiate, 

Being  left,  our  double  sin  !  "  -  In  the  Queen's  heart, 

The  tiger  —  that  is  prisoned  at  life's  start 
293 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

In  mortals,  though  perchance  it  never  wakes 

From  its  mute  sleep  —  began  to  rouse  and  crawl. 

Her  lips  grew  white,  and  on  her  nostrils  flakes 
Of  wrath  and  loathing  stood.  "  What,  now,  is  all 

This  wicked  drivel  ? "  she  cried ;  "  how  dare  they  bring 

The  Queen  to  listen  to  so  foul  a  thing?" 

"  Queen  '   I  speak  truth,  —  the  truth,  I  say  !   He  fed 
Upon  these  lips,  —  this  hair  he  loved  to  praise! 
I  held  within  these  arms  his  bright  fair  head 

Pressed  close,  ah,  close  !  —  Our  lifetimes  were  the  days 
We  met,  —  the  rest  a  void  !"  —"Thou  spectral  Sin, 
Be  silent !  or,  if  such  a  thing  hath  been, — 

"  If  this  be  not  thy  frenzy,  —  quick,  the  proof, 

Before  I  score  the  lie  thy  lips  amid  ! " 
She  spoke  so  dread  the  other  crouched  aloof, 

Panting,  but  with  gaunt  hands  somewhere  undid 
A  knot  within  her  hair,  and  thence  she  took 
The  signet-ring  and  passed  it.   The  Queen's  look 

Fell  on  it,  and  that  moment  the  strong  stay, 

Which  held  her  from  the  instinct  of  her  wrong, 

Broke,  and  therewith  the  whole  device  gave  way, 
The  grand  ideal  she  had  watched  so  long : 

As  if  a  tower  should  fall,  and  on  the  plain 

Only  a  scathed  and  broken  pile  remain. 

But  in  its  stead  she  would  not  measure  yet 

The  counter-chance,  nor  deem  this  sole  attaint 

Made  the  Prince  less  than  one  in  whom  't  was  set 
To  prove  him  man.    u  I  held  him  as  a  saint," 

She  thought,  "  no  other  :  —  of  all  men  alone 

My  blameless  one !   Too  high  my  faith  had  flown  : 

u  So  be  it !  "    With  a  sudden  bitter  scorn 

She  said  :  "  You  were  his  plaything,  then  !   the  food 
294 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Wherewith  he  dulled  what  appetite  is  born, 

Of  the  gross  kind,  in  men.    His  nobler  mood 
You  knew  not !    How,  shall  I,  —  the  fountain  life 
Of  yonder  children,  —  his  embosomed  wife, 

"  Through  all  these  years, —  shall  I,  his  Queen,  for  this 

Sin-smitten  harlot's  gage  of  an  hour's  shame, 
Misdoubt  him  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  I  was  his  harlot,  —  yes, 

God  help  me  !   and  had  worn  the  loathly  name 
Before  the  world,  to  have  him  in  that  guise  !  " 
u  Thou  strumpet !   wilt  thou  have  me  of  his  prize 

"  Rob  Satan  ?  "  cried  the  Queen,  and  one  step  moved. 

"  Queen,  if  you  loved  him,  save  me  from  your  bane, 
As  something  that  was  dear  to  him  you  loved  !  " 

Then  from  beneath  her  serge  she  took  the  chain 
Which,  long  ago  in  that  lone  wood,  the  Prince 
Hung  round  her,  —  she  had  never  loosed  it  since, — 

And  gave  therewith  the  face  which,  in  its  years 
Of  youthful,  sunniest  grace,  a  limner  drew; 

And  unsigned  letters,  darkened  with  her  tears, 
Writ  in  the  hand  that  hapless  sovereign  knew 

Too  well ;  —  then  told  the  whole,  strange,  secret  tale, 

As  if  with  Heaven  that  penance  could  avail, 

Or  with  the  Queen,  who  heard  as  idols  list 

The  mad  priest's  cry,  nor  changed  her  place  nor  moaned. 
But,  clutching  those  mute  tokens  of  each  tryst, 
Hid  them  about  her.    But  the  other  groaned  : 
"The  picture,  —  let  me  see  it  ere  I  die, — 
Then  take  them  all !   once,  only  !  "  —  At  that  cry 

The  Queen  strode  forward  with  an  awful  stride, 
And  seized  the  dying  one,  and  bore  her  down, 

And  rose  her  height,  and  said,  "  Thou  shouldst  have  died 
Ere  telling  this,  nor  I  have  worn  a  crown 
295 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

To  hear  it  told.    I  am  of  God  accurst ! 
Of  all  his  hated,  may  he  smite  thee  first !  " 

With  that  wild  speech  she  fled,  nor  looked  behind, 
Hasting  to  get  her  from  that  fearful  room, 

Past  the  meek  nuns  in  wait.    These  did  not  find 

The  sick  one's  eyes  —  yet  staring  through  the  gloom, 

While  her  hands  fumbled  at  her  heart,  and  Death 

Made  her  limbs  quake,  and  combated  her  breath  — 

More  dreadful  than  the  Queen's  look,  as  she  thence 
Made  through  the  court,  and  reached  her  own  array 

She  knew  not  how,  and  clamored,  "  Bear  me  hence !  " 
And,  even  as  her  chariot  moved  away, 

High  o'er  the  Abbey  heard  the  minster  toll 

Its  doleful  bell,  as  for  a  passing  soul. 

Though  midst  her  guardsmen,  as  they  speeded  back, 
The  wont  of  royalty  maintained  her  still, 

Where  grief  had  been  were  ruin  now  and  rack  ! 
The  firm  earth  reeled  about,  nor  could  her  will 

Make  it  seem  stable,  while  her  soul  went  through 

Her  wedded  years  in  desperate  review. 

The  air  seemed  full  of  lies  ;  the  realm,  unsound  ; 

Her  courtiers,  knaves ;  her  maidens,  good  and  fair, 
Most  shameless  bawds ;   her  children  clung  around 

Like  asps,  to  sting  her ;  from  the  kingdom's  heir, 
Shuddering,  she  turned  her  face,  —  his  features  took 
A  shining  horror  from  his  father's  look. 

Along  her  city  streets  the  thrifty  crowd, 

As  the  Queen  passed,  their  loving  reverence  made. 
"  'T  is  false !  they  love  me  not  !  "  she  cried  aloud  : 

So  flung  her  from  her  chariot,  and  forbade 
All  words,  but  waved  her  ladies  back,  and  gained 
Her  inmost  room,  and  by  herself  remained. 
296 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

"We  have  been  alone  these  years,  and  knew  it  not," 

She  said  ;  "  now  let  us  on  the  knowledge  thrive  !  " 
So  closed  the  doors,  and  all  things  else  forgot 

Than  her  own  misery.  "  I  cannot  live 
And  bear  this  death,"  she  said, "  nor  die,  the  more 
To  meet  him,  —  and  that  woman  gone  before  !  " 

Thus  with  herself  she  writhed,  while  midnight  gloomed, 

As  lone  as  any  outcast  of  us  all ; 
And  once,  without  a  purpose,  as  the  doomed 

Stare  round  and  count  the  shadows  on  the  wall, 
Unclasped  a  poet's  book  which  near  her  lay, 
And  turned  its  pages  in  that  witless  way, 

And  read  the  song,  some  wise,  sad  man  had  made, 

With  bitter  frost  about  his  doubting  heart. 
"  What  is  this  life,"  it  plained,  "  what  masquerade 
Of  which  ye  all  are  witnesses  and  part  ? 

'Tis  but  a  foolish,  smiling  face  to  wear 

Above  your  mortal  sorrow,  chill  despair ; 

"  To  mock  your  comrades  and  yourselves  with  mirth 

That  feels  the  care  ye  cannot  drive  away  ; 
To  vaunt  of  health,  yet  hide  beneath  the  girth 

Impuissance,  fell  sickness,  slow  decay ; 
To  cloak  defeat,  and  with  the  rich,  the  great, 
Applaud  their  fairer  fortunes  as  they  mate  ; 

u  To  brave  the  sudden  woe,  the  secret  loss, 

Though  but  to-morrow  brings  the  open  shame ; 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  your  caste,  and  toss 

Your  last  to  him  that's  richer  save  in  name ; 
To  judge  your  peers,  and  give  the  doleful  meed 
To  crime  that's  white  beside  your  hidden  deed; 

u  To  whisper  love,  where  of  true  love  is  none,  — 
Desire,  where  lust  is  dead ;  to  live  unchaste, 
297 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

And  wear  the  priestly  cincture;  —  last,  to  own, 

When  the  morn's  dream  is  gone  and  noontide  waste, 
Some  fate  still  kept  ye  from  your  purpose  sweet, 
Down  strange,  circuitous  paths  it  drew  your  feet !  " 

Thus  far  she  read,  and,  u  Let  me  read  no  more," 
She  clamored,  "  since  the  scales  have  left  mine  eyes 

And  freed  the  dreadful  gift  I  lacked  before  ! 
We  are  but  puppets,  in  whatever  guise 

They  clothe  us,  to  whatever  tune  we  move ; 

Albeit  we  prate  of  duty,  dream  of  love. 

u  Let  me,  too,  play  the  common  part,  and  wean 

My  life  from  hope,  and  look  beneath  the  mask 
To  read  the  masker !   I,  who  was  a  Queen, 

And  like  a  hireling  thought  to  'scape  my  task  ! 
For  some  few  seasons  left  this  heart  is  schooled  : 
Yet,  —  had  it  been  a  little  longer  fooled, — 

u  O  God  !  "   And  from  her  seat  she  bowed  her  down. 

The  gentle  sovereign  of  that  spacious  land 
Lay  prone  beneath  the  bauble  of  her  crown, 

Nor  heard  all  night  her  whispering  ladies  stand 
Outside  the  portal.    Greatly,  in  the  morn, 
They  marvelled  at  her  visage  wan  and  worn. 


BUT  when  the  sun  was  high,  the  populace 

By  every  gateway  filled  the  roads,  and  sought 

The  martial  plain,  within  whose  central  space 
That  wonder  of  the  Prince's  tomb  was  wrought. 

Thereto  from  out  the  nearer  land  there  passed 

The  mingled  folk,  an  eager  throng  and  vast ; 

Knights,  commons,  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
The  present  and  the  promise  of  the  realm. 
298 


THE    BLAMELESS   PRINCE 

Anon  the  coming  of  the  Queen  was  told, 

And  mounted  guards,  with  sable  plumes  at  helm, 
Made  through  the  middle,  like  a  reaper's  swath, 
A  straight,  wide  roadway  for  the  sovereign's  path, 

Then  rose  the  murmurous  sound  of  her  advance, 
And,  with  the  crown-prince,  and  her  other  brood 

Led  close  behind,  she  came.    Her  countenance 
Moved  not  to  right  nor  left,  until  she  stood 

Before  the  tomb ;  yet  those,  who  took  the  breath 

That  clothed  her  progress,  felt  a  waft  of  death. 

O  noble  martyr  !   queenliest  intent ! 

Strong  human  soul,  that  holds  to  pride  through  all ! 
Ah  me !   with  what  fierce  heavings  in  them  pent 

The  brave  complete  their  work,  whate'er  befall ! 
Upon  her  front  the  people  only  read 
Pale  grief  that  clung  forever  to  the  dead. 

How  should  they  know  she  trod  the  royal  stand, 
And  took  within  her  hold  the  silken  line, 

As,  while  the  headsman  waits,  one  lays  her  hand 
Upon  the  scarf  that  slays  her  by  a  sign  ? 

With  one  great  pang  she  drew  the  veil,  and  lo  ! 

The  work  was  dazzling  in  the  noonday  glow. 

There  shone  the  Prince's  image,  golden,  high, 

Installed  forever  in  the  people's  sight. 
u  Alas  !  "  they  cried,  u  too  good,  too  fair  to  die  !  " 
But  at  the  foot  the  Queen  had  bid  them  write 
Her  consort's  goodness,  and  his  glory-roll, 
Yet  knew  not  they  had  carved  upon  the  scroll 

That  last  assurance  of  his  stainless  heart, — 

For  such  they  deemed  his  words  who  heard  them  fall, 
u  Of  all  great  things  this  Prince  achieved  his  part, 
Tet  wedded  Love  to  him  was  worth  them  all." 
299 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE 

Thus  read  the  Queen  :  till  now,  her  injured  soul 
Of  its  forlornness  had  not  felt  the  whole. 

Now  all  her  heart  was  broken.  There  she  fell, 

And  to  the  skies  her  lofty  spirit  fled. 
The  wrong  of  those  mute  words  had  smitten  well. 

A  cry  went  up:  u  The  Queen  !  the  Queen  is  dead! 
O  regal  heart  that  would  not  reign  alone  ! 
O  fatal  sorrow  !   O  the  empty  throne  !  " 

Her  people  made  her  beauteous  relics  room 
Within  the  chamber  where  her  consort  slept. 

There  rest  they  side  by  side.  Around  the  tomb 
A  thousand  matrons  solemn  vigil  kept. 

Long  ages  told  the  story  of  her  reign, 

And  sang  the  nuptial  love  that  hath  no  stain. 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


THE    FRESHET 

THAT  year  our  Equinoctial  came  along 
Ere  the  snow  left  us.   Under  mountain  pines 
White  drifts  lay  frozen  like  the  dead,  and  down 
Through  many  a  gorge  the  bristling  hemlocks  crossed 
Their  spears  above  the  ice-enfettered  brooks ; 
But  the  pent  river  wailed,  through  prison  walls, 
For  freedom  and  the  time  to  rend  its  chains. 
At  last  it  came :  five  days  a  drenching  rain 
Flooded  the  country ;  snow-drifts  fell  away  ; 
The  brooks  grew  rivers,  and  the  river  here  — 
A  ravenous,  angry  torrent  —  tore  up  banks, 
And  overflowed  the  meadows,  league  on  league. 
Great  cakes  of  ice,  four-square,  with  mounds  of  hay, 
Fence-rails,  and  scattered  drift-wood,  and  huge  beams 
From  broken  dams  above  us,  mill-wheel  ties, 
Smooth  lumber,  and  the  torn-up  trunks  of  trees, 
Swept  downward,  strewing  all  the  land  about. 
Sometimes  the  flood  surrounded,  unawares, 
Stray  cattle,  or  a  flock  of  timorous  sheep, 
And  bore  them  with  it,  struggling,  till  the  ice 
Beat  shape  and  being  from  them.  You  know  how 
These  freshets  scour  our  valleys.  So  it  raged 
A  night  and  day ;  but  when  the  day  grew  night 
The  storm  fell  off;  lastly,  the  sun  went  down 
Quite  clear  of  clouds,  and  ere  he  came  again 
The  flood  began  to  lower. 

Through  the  rise 
We  men  had  been  at  work,  like  water-sprites, 

303 


POEMS    OF    NATURE 

Lending  a  helping  hand  to  cottagers 
Along  the  lowlands.   Now,  at  early  morn, 
The  banks  were  sentry-lined  with  thrifty  swains, 
Who  hauled  great  stores  of  drift-wood  up  the  slope. 
But  toward  the  bridge  our  village  maidens  soon 
Came  flocking,  thick  as  swallows  after  storms, 
When,  with  light  wing,  they  skim  the  happy  fields 
And  greet  the  sunshine.   Danger  mostly  gone, 
They  watched  the  thunderous  passage  of  the  flood 
Between  the  abutments,  while  the  upper  stream, 
Far  as  they  saw,  lay  like  a  seething  strait, 
From  hill  to  hill.   Below,  with  gradual  fall 
Through  narrower  channels,  all  was  clash  and  clang 
And  inarticulate  tumult.  Through  the  grove 
Yonder,  our  picnic-ground,  the  driving  tide 
Struck  a  new  channel,  and  the  craggy  ice 
Scored  down  its  saplings.   Following  with  the  rest 
Came  George  and  Lucy,  not  three  honeymoons 
Made  man  and  wife,  and  happier  than  a  pair 
Of  cooing  ring-doves  in  the  early  June. 

Two  piers,  you  know,  bore  up  the  former  bridge, 
Cleaving  the  current,  wedge-like,  on  the  north ; 
Between  them  stood  our  couple,  intergrouped 
With  many  others.   On  a  sudden  loomed 
An  immolating  terror  from  above,— 
A  floating  field  of  ice,  where  fifty  cakes 
Had  clung  together,  mingled  with  a  mass 
Of  debris  from  the  upper  conflict,  logs 
Woven  in  with  planks  and  fence-rails ;  and  in  front 
One  huge,  old,  fallen  trunk  rose  like  a  wall 
Across  the  channel.  Then  arose  a  cry 
From  all  who  saw  it,  clamoring,  Flee  the  bridge  ! 
Run  shoreward  for  your  lives  !  and  all  made  haste, 
Eastward  and  westward,  till  they  felt  the  ground 
Stand  firm  beneath  them ;  but,  with  close-locked  arms, 
Lucy  and  George  still  looked,  from  the  lower  rail, 
304 


THE    FRESHET 

Toward  the  promontory  where  we  stood, 

Nor  saw  the  death,  nor  seemed  to  hear  the  cry. 

Run  George  !  run  Lucy  !  shouted  all  at  once ; 

Too  late,  too  late  !   for,  with  resistless  crash, 

Against  both  piers  that  mighty  ruin  lay 

A  space  that  seemed  an  hour,  yet  far  too  short 

For  rescue.  Swaying  slowly  back  and  forth, 

With  ponderous  tumult,  all  the  bridge  went  off; 

Piers,  beams,  planks,  railings  snapped  their  groaning  ties 

And  fell  asunder ! 

But  the  middle  part, 

Wrought  with  great  bolts  of  iron,  like  a  raft 
Held  out  awhile,  whirled  onward  in  the  wreck 
This  way  and  that,  and  washed  with  freezing  spray. 
Faster  than  I  can  tell  you,  it  came  down 
Beyond  our  point,  and  in  a  flash  we  saw 
George,  on  his  knees,  close-clinging  for  dear  life, 
One  arm  around  the  remnant  of  the  rail, 
One  clasping  Lucy.   We  were  pale  as  they, 
Powerless  to  save ;  but  even  as  they  swept 
Across  the  bend,  and  twenty  stalwart  men 
Ran  to  and  fro  with  clamor  for  A  rope  ! 
A  boat  !  —  their  cries  together  reached  the  shore  ; 
Save  her  !   Save  him  !  —  so  true  Love  conquers  all. 
Furlongs  below  they  still  more  closely  held 
Each  other,  'mid  a  thousand  shocks  of  ice 
And  seething  horrors ;  till,  at  last,  the  end 
Came,  where  the  river,  scornful  of  its  bed, 
Struck  a  new  channel,  roaring  through  the  grove. 
There,  dashed  against  a  naked  beech  that  stood 
Grimly  in  front,  their  shattered  raft  gave  up 
Its  precious  charge  ;  and  then  a  mist  of  tears 
Blinded  all  eyes,  through  which  we  seemed  to  see 
Two  forms  in  death-clasp  whirled  along  the  flood, 
And  all  was  over. 


305 


POEMS    OF   NATURE 


THE   SWALLOW 

HAD  I,  my  love  declared,  the  tireless  wing 
That  wafts  the  swallow  to  her  northern  skies, 
I  would  not,  sheer  within  the  rich  surprise 
Of  full-blown  Summer,  like  the  swallow,  fling 
My  coyer  being ;  but  would  follow  Spring, 
Melodious  consort,  as  she  daily  flies, 
Apace  with  suns,  that  o'er  new  woodlands  rise 
Each  morn — with  rains  her  gentler  stages  bring. 
My  pinions  should  beat  music  with  her  own  ; 
Her  smiles  and  odors  should  delight  me  ever, 
Gliding,  with  measured  progress,  from  the  zone 
Where  golden  seas  receive  the  mighty  river, 
Unto  yon  lichened  cliffs,  whose  ridges  sever 
Our  Norseland  from  the  arctic  surge's  moan. 


REFUGE    IN    NATURE 

WHEN  the  rude  world's  relentless  war  has  pressed 
Fiercely  upon  them,  and  the  hot  campaign 
Closes  with  battles  lost,  some  yield  their  lives, 
Or  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  fight  — 
Unwise,  and  comprehending  not  their  fate, 
Nor  gathering  'that  affluent  recompense 
Which  the  all-pitying  Earth  has  yet  in  store. 
Surely  such  men  have  never  known  the  love 
Of  Nature ;  nor  had  recourse  to  her  fount 
Of  calm  delights,  whose  influences  heal 
The  wounded  spirits  of  her  vanquished  sons; 
Nor  ever  —  in  those  fruitful  earlier  days, 
Wherein  her  manifest  forms  do  most  enrich 
Our  senses  void  of  subtler  cognizance  — 
Wandered  in  summer  fields,  climbed  the  free  hills, 
Pursued  the  murmuring  music  of  her  streams, 
And  found  the  borders  of  her  sounding  sea. 
306 


REFUGE    IN    NATURE 

But  thou  —  when,  in  the  multitudinous  lists 
Of  traffic,  all  thine  own  is  forfeited 
At  some  wild  hazard,  or  by  weakening  drains 
Poured  from  thee  ;  or  when,  striving  for  the  meed 
Of  place,  thou  failest,  and  the  lesser  man 
By  each  ignoble  method  wins  thy  due  ; 
When  the  injustice  of  the  social  world 
Environs  thee ;  when  ruthless  public  scorn, 
Black  slander,  and  the  meannesses  of  friends 
Have  made  the  bustling  practice  of  the  world 
To  thee  a  discord  and  a  mockery; 
Or  even  if  that  last  extremest  pang 
Be  thine,  and,  added  to  such  other  woes, 
The  loss  of  that  forever  faithful  love 
Which  else  had  balanced  all  :  the  putting  out, 
Untimely,  of  the  light  in  dearest  eyes ;  - 
At  such  a  time  thou  well  may'st  count  the  days 
Evil,  and  for  a  season  quit  the  field ; 
Yet  not  surrendering  all  human  hopes, 
Nor  the  rich  physical  life  which  still  remains 
God's  boon  and  thy  sustainer.    It  were  base 
To  join  alliance  with  the  hosts  of  Fate 
Against  thyself,  crowning  their  victory 
By  loose  despair,  or  seeking  rest  in  death. 

More  wise,  betake  thee  to  those  sylvan  haunts 
Thou  knewest  when  young,  and,  once  again  a  child, 
Let  their  perennial  loveliness  renew 
Thy  natural  faith  and  childhood's  heart  serene. 
Forgetting  all  the  toilsome  pilgrimage, 
Awake  from  strife  and  shame,  as  from  a  dream 
Dreamed  by  a  boy,  when  under  waving  trees 
He  sleeps  and  dreams  a  languid  afternoon. 
Once  more  from  these  harmonious  beauties  gain 
Repose  and  ransom,  and  a  power  to  feel 
The  immortal  gladness  of  inanimate  things. 

3°7 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 

There  is  the  mighty  Mother,  ever  young 
And  garlanded,  and  welcoming  her  sons. 
There  are  her  thousand  charms  to  soothe  thy  pain, 
And  merge  thy  little,  individual  woe 
In  the  broad  health  and  happy  fruitfulness 
Of  all  that  smiles  around  thee.     For  thy  sake 
The  woven  arches  of  her  forests  breathe 
Perpetual  anthems,  and  the  blue  skies  smile 
Between,  to  heal  thee  with  their  infinite  hope. 
There  are  her  crystal  waters  :  lave  thy  brows, 
Hot  with  long  turmoil,  in  their  purity ; 
Wash  off  the  battle-dust  from  those  poor  limbs 
Blood-stained  and  weary.    Holy  sleep  shall  come 
Upon  thee ;  waking,  thou  shalt  find  in  bloom 
The  lilies,  fresh  as  in  the  olden  days ; 
And  once  again,  when  Night  unveils  her  stars, 
Thou  shalt  have  sight  of  their  high  radiance, 
And  feel  the  old,  mysterious  awe  subdue 
The  phantoms  of  thy  pain. 

And  from  that  height 

A  voice  shall  whisper  of  the  faith,  through  which 
A  man  may  act  his  part  until  the  end. 
Anon  thy  ancient  yearning  for  the  fight 
May  come  once  more,  tempered  by  poise  of  chance, 
And  guided  well  with  all  experience. 
Invisible  hands  may  gird  thy  armor  on, 
And  Nature  put  new  weapons  in  thy  hands, 
Sending  thee  out  to  try  the  world  again,  — 
Perchance  to  conquer,  being  cased  in  mail 
Of  double  memories  ;  knowing  smaller  griefs 
Can  add  no  sorrow  to  the  woeful  past ; 
And  that,  howbeit  thou  mayest  stand  or  fall, 
Earth  proffers  men  her  refuge  everywhere, 
And  Heaven's  promise  is  for  aye  the  same. 


308 


WOODS    AND    WATERS 

SURF 

SPLENDORS  of  morning  the  billow-crests  brighten, 

^  Lighting  and  luring  them  on  to  the  land, 

Far-away  waves  where  the  wan  vessels  whiten, 
^  Blue  rollers  breaking  in  surf  where  we  stand. 
Curved  like  the  necks  of  a  legion  of  horses, 

Each  with  his  froth-gilded  mane  flowing  free, 
Hither  they  speed  in  perpetual  courses, 
Bearing  thy  riches,  O  beautiful  sea ! 

Strong  with  the  striving  of  yesterday's  surges, 

Lashed  by  the  wanton  winds  leagues  from  the  shore, 
Each,  driven  fast  by  its  follower,  urges 

Fearlessly  those  that  are  fleeting  before ; 
How  they  leap  over  the  ridges  we  walk  on, 

Flinging  us  gifts  from  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

Silvery  fish  for  the  foam-haunting  falcon, 

Palm-weed  and  pearls  for  my  darling  and  me  ! 

Light  falls  her  foot  where  the  rift  follows  after, 

Finer  her  hair  than  your  feathery  spray, 
Sweeter  her  voice  than  your  infinite  laughter, 

Hist !  ye  wild  couriers,  list  to  my  lay  ! 
Deep  in  the  chambers  of  grottos  auroral 

Morn  laves  her  jewels  and  bends  her  red  knee : 
Thence  to  my  dear  one  your  amber  and  coral 

Bring  for  her  dowry,  O  beautiful  sea  ! 


WOODS  AND  WATERS 

"  O  ye  valleys  !   O  ye  mountains  ! 
O  ye  groves  and  crystal  fountains  ! 
How  I  love  at  liberty, 
By  turns,  to  come  and  visit  ye  !  " 

COME,  let  us  burst  the  cerements  and  the  shroud, 
And  with  the  livelong  year  renew  our  breath, 
309 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 

Far  from  the  darkness  of  the  city's  cloud 

Which  hangs  above  us  like  the  pall  of  Death. 
Haste,  let  us  leave  the  shadow  of  his  wings  ! 
Off  from  our  cares,  a  stolen,  happy  time  ! 

Come  where  the  skies  are  blue,  the  uplands  green  ; 

For  hark  !  the  robin  sings 
Even  here,  blithe  herald,  his  auroral  rhyme, 
Foretelling  joy,  and  June  his  sovereign  queen. 

See,  in  our  paved  courts  her  missal  scroll 

Is  dropped  astealth,  and  every  verdant  line, 
Emblazoned  round  with  Summer's  aureole, 

Pictures  to  eager  eyes,  like  thine  and  mine, 
Her  trees  new-leaved  and  hillsides  far  away. 

Ransom  has  come :  out  from  this  vaulted  town, 
Poor  prisoners  of  a  giant  old  and  blind, 

Into  the  breezy  day, 

Fleeing  the  sights  and  sounds  that  wear  us  down, 
And  in  the  fields  our  ancient  solace  find ! 

Again  I  hunger  for  the  living  wood, 

The  laurelled  crags,  the  hemlocks  hanging  wide, 
The  rushing  stream  that  will  not  be  withstood, 

Bound  forward  to  wed  him  with  the  river's  tide: 
O  what  wild  leaps  through  many  a  fettered  pass, 
Through  knotted  ambuscade  of  root  and  rock, 

How  white  the  plunge,  how  dark  the  cloven  pool ! 

Then  to  rich  meadow-grass, 
And  pastures  fed  by  tinkling  herd  and  flock, 
Till  the  wide  stream  receives  its  waters  cool. 

A-gain  I  long  for  lakes  that  lie  between 

High  mountains,  fringed  about  with  virgin  firs, 

Where  hand  of  man  has  never  rudely  been, 
Nor  plashing  wheel  the  limpid  water  stirs  ; 

There  let  us  twain  begin  the  world  again 

Like  those  of  old  ;  while  tree,  and  trout,  and  deer 
310 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

Unto  their  kindred  beings  draw  our  own, 

Till  more  than  haunts  of  men, 
Than  place  and  pelf,  more  welcome  these  appear, 
And  better  worth  sheer  life  than  we  had  known. 

Thither,  ay,  thither  flee,  O  dearest  friend, 

From  walls  wherein  we  grow  so  wan  and  old  ! 
The  liberal  Earth  will  still  her  lovers  lend 
Water  of  life  and  storied  sands  of  gold. 
Though  of  her  perfect  form  thou  hast  secured 
Thy  will,  some  charm  shall  aye  thine  hold  defy, 
And  day  by  day  thy  passion  yet  shall  grow, 

Even  as  a  bridegroom,  lured 
By  the  unravished  secret  of  her  eye, 

Reads  the  bride's  soul,  yet  never  all  can  know. 

And  when  from  her  embrace  again  thou  'rt  torn, 

(Though  well  for  her  the  world  were  thrown  away  !) 
At  thine  old  tasks  thou  'It  not  be  quite  forlorn, 

Remembering  where  is  peace  ;  and  thou  shalt  say, 
I  know  where  beauty  has  not  felt  the  curse, — 
Where,  though  I  age,  all  round  me  is  so  young 
That  in  its  youth  my  soul's  youth  mirrored  seems." 

Yes,  in  their  rippling  verse, 
For  all  our  toil,  they  have  not  falsely  sung 

Who  said  there  still  was  rest  beyond  our  dreams. 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands 
Betwixt  the  bright  and  shaded  lands, 
Above  the  regions  it  divides 
And  borders  with  its  furrowed  sides, 
The  seaward  valley  laughs  with  light 
Till  the  round  sun  o'erhangs  this  height 
But  then  the  shadow  of  the  crest 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 

No  more  the  plains  that  lengthen  west 
Enshrouds,  yet  slowly,  surely  creeps 
Eastward,  until  the  coolness  steeps 
A  darkling  league  of  tilth  and  wold, 
And  chills  the  flocks  that  seek  their  fold. 

Not  like  those  ancient  summits  lone, 
Mont  Blanc,  on  his  eternal  throne, — 
The  city-gemmed  Peruvian  peak,  — 
The  sunset-portals  landsmen  seek, 
Whose  train,  to  reach  the  Golden  Land, 
Crawls  slow  and  pathless  through  the  sand, 
Or  that,  whose  ice-lit  beacon  guides 
The  mariner  on  tropic  tides, 
And  flames  across  the  Gulf  afar, 
A  torch  by  day,  by  night  a  star,  — 
Not  thus,  to  cleave  the  outer  skies, 
Does  my  serener  mountain  rise, 
Nor  aye  forget  its  gentle  birth 
Upon  the  dewy,  pastoral  earth. 

But  ever,  in  the  noonday  light, 
Are  scenes  whereof  I  love  the  sight,  — 
Broad  pictures  of  the  lower  world 
Beneath  my  gladdened  eyes  unfurled. 
Irradiate  distances  reveal 
Fair  nature  wed  to  human  weal ; 
The  rolling  valley  made  a  plain  ; 
Its  checkered  squares  of  grass  and  grain  ; 
The  silvery  rye,  the  golden  wheat, 
The  flowery  elders  where  they  meet,  — 
Ay,  even  the  springing  corn  I  see, 
And  garden  haunts  of  bird  and  bee ; 
And  where,  in  daisied  meadows,  shines 
The  wandering  river  through  its  vines, 
Move  specks  at  random,  which  I  know 
Are  herds  a-grazing  to  and  fro. 
312 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

Yet  still  a  goodly  height  it  seems 

From  which  the  mountain  pours  his  streams, 

Or  hinders,  with  caressing  hands, 

The  sunlight  seeking  other  lands. 

Like  some  great  giant,  strong  and  proud, 

He  fronts  the  lowering  thunder-cloud, 

And  wrests  its  treasures,  to  bestow 

A  guerdon  on  the  realm  below ; 

Or,  by  the  deluge  roused  from  sleep 

Within  his  bristling  forest-keep, 

Shakes  all  his  pines,  and  far  and  wide 

Sends  down  a  rich,  imperious  tide. 

At  night  the  whistling  tempests  meet 

In  tryst  upon  his  topmost  seat, 

And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  sky 

Frolic  and  gibber,  storming  by. 

By  day  I  see  the  ocean-mists 

Float  with  the  current  where  it  lists, 

And  from  my  summit  I  can  hail 

Cloud-vessels  passing  on  the  gale,  — 

The  stately  argosies  of  air,  — 

And  parley  with  the  helmsmen  there; 

Can  probe  their  dim,  mysterious  source, 

Ask  of  their  cargo  and  their  course,  — 

Whence  come  ?  where  bound  ?  —  and  wait  reply, 

As,  all  sails  spread,  they  hasten  by. 

If  foiled  in  what  I  fain  would  know, 
Again  I  turn  my  eyes  below 
And  eastward,  past  the  hither  mead 
Where  all  day  long  the  cattle  feed, 
A  crescent  gleam  my  sight  allures 
And  clings  about  the  hazy  moors,  — 
The  great,  encircling,  radiant  sea, 
Alone  in  its  immensity. 


3*3 


POEMS    OF    NATURE 

Even  there,  a  queen  upon  its  shore, 
I  know  the  city  evermore 
Her  palaces  and  temples  rears, 
And  wooes  the  nations  to  her  piers  ; 
Yet  the  proud  city  seems  a  mole 
To  this  horizon-bounded  whole  ; 
And,  from  my  station  on  the  mount, 
The  whole  is  little  worth  account 
Beneath  the  overhanging  sky, 
That  seems  so  far  and  yet  so  nigh. 
Here  breathe  I  inspiration  rare, 
Unburdened  by  the  grosser  air 
That  hugs  the  lower  land,  and  feel 
Through  all  my  finer  senses  steal 
The  life  of  what  that  life  may  be, 
Freed  from  this  dull  earth's  density, 
When  we,  with  many  a  soul-felt  thrill, 
Shall  thrid  the  ether  at  our  will, 
Through  widening  corridors  of  morn 
And  starry  archways  swiftly  borne. 

Here,  in  the  process  of  the  night, 
The  stars  themselves  a  purer  light 
Give  out,  than  reaches  those  who  gaze 
Enshrouded  with  the  valley's  haze. 
October,  entering  Heaven's  fane, 
Assumes  her  lucent,  annual  reign  : 
Then  what  a  dark  and  dismal  clod, 
Forsaken  by  the  Sons  of  God, 
Seems  this  sad  world,  to  those  which  march 
Across  the  high,  illumined  arch, 
And  with  their  brightness  draw  me  forth 
To  scan  the  splendors  of  the  North  ! 
I  see  the  Dragon,  as  he  toils 
With  Ursa  in  his  shining  coils, 
And  mark  the  Huntsman  lift  his  shield, 
Confronting  on  the  ancient  field 
3H 


HOLYOKE    VALLEY 

The  Bull,  while  in  a  mystic  row 

The  jewels  of  his  girdle  glow  ; 

Or,  haply,  I  may  ponder  long 

On  that  remoter,  sparkling  throng, 

The  orient  sisterhood,  around 

Whose  chief  our  Galaxy  is  wound  ; 

Thus,  half  enwrapt  in  classic  dreams, 

And  brooding  over  Learning's  gleams, 

I  leave  to  gloom  the  under-land, 

And  from  my  watch-tower,  close  at  hand, 

Like  him  who  led  the  favored  race, 

I  look  on  glory  face  to  face  ! 

So,  on  the  mountain-top,  alone, 
I  dwell,  as  one  who  holds  a  throne ; 
Or  prince,  or  peasant,  him  I  count 
My  peer,  who  stands  upon  a  mount, 
Sees  further  than  the  tribes  below, 
And  knows  the  joys  they  cannot  know ; 
And,  though  beyond  the  sound  of  speech 
They  reign,  my  soul  goes  out  to  preach, 
Far  on  their  noble  heights  elsewhere, 
My  brother-monarchs  of  the  air. 


HOLYOKE  VALLEY 

"  Something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again." 

How  many  years  have  made  their  flights, 
Northampton,  over  thee  and  me, 

Since  last  I  scaled  those  purple  heights 
That  guard  the  pathway  to  the  sea  ; 

Or  climbed,  as  now,  the  topmost  crown 
Of  western  ridges,  whence  again 
3*5 


POEMS    OF  NATURE 

I  see,  for  miles  beyond  the  town, 
That  sunlit  stream  divide  the  plain  ? 

There  still  the  giant  warders  stand 

And  watch  the  current's  downward  flow, 

And  northward  still,  with  threatening  hand, 
The  river  bends  his  ancient  bow. 

I  see  the  hazy  lowlands  meet 

The  sky,  and  count  each  shining  spire, 
From  those  which  sparkle  at  my  feet 

To  distant  steeples  tipt  with  fire. 

For  still,  old  town,  thou  art  the  same : 
The  redbreasts  sing  their  choral  tune, 

Within  thy  mantling  elms  aflame, 
As  in  that  other,  dearer  June, 

When  here  my  footsteps  entered  first, 
And  summer  perfect  beauty  wore, 

And  all  thy  charms  upon  me  burst, 

While  Life's  whole  journey  lay  before. 

Here  every  fragrant  walk  remains, 
Where  happy  maidens  come  and  go, 

And  students  saunter  in  the  lanes 
And  hum  the  songs  I  used  to  know. 

I  gaze,  yet  find  myself  alone, 

And  walk  with  solitary  feet : 
How  strange  these  wonted  ways  have  grown  ! 

Where  are  the  friends  I  used  to  meet  ? 

In  yonder  shaded  Academe 

The  rippling  metres  flow  to-day, 

But  other  boys  at  sunset  dream 
Of  love,  and  laurels  far  away ; 


SEEKING   THE   MAY-FLOWER 

And  ah  !   from  yonder  trellised  home, 
Less  sweet  the  faces  are  that  peer 

Than  those  of  old,  and  voices  come 
Less  musically  to  my  ear. 

Sigh  not,  ye  breezy  elms,  but  give 

The  murmur  of  my  sweetheart's  vows, 

When  Life  was  something  worth  to  live, 
And  Love  was  young  beneath  your  boughs  ! 

Fade  beauty,  smiling  everywhere, 
That  can  from  year  to  year  outlast 

Those  charms  a  thousand  times  more  fair, 
And,  O,  our  joys  so  quickly  past ! 

Or  smile  to  gladden  fresher  hearts 

Henceforth  :  but  they  shall  yet  be  led, 

Revisiting  these  ancient  parts, 

Like  me  to  mourn  their  glory  fled. 


SEEKING   THE    MAY-FLOWER 

THE  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round, 

'T  is  the  first  robin  of  the  spring  ! 
The  song  of  the  full  orchard  choir 
Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 

Glad  sights  are  common  :  Nature  draws 
Her  random  pictures  through  the  year, 
But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 

Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 
One  picture,  of  the  May. 


POEiVtS    OF    NATURE 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 
Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 
The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 

Their  pink,  pale  flowers  to  view. 

Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 

The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 
And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 

And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 

With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 
And  half  by  chance  they  meet  her  own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won,— 
Like  her,  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  shy,— 
Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock-trees, 

The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below; 
And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know ! 

Hark  !   from  the  moss-clung  apple-bough, 

Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 
That  gurgling  music  of  the  May, — 
'T  was  the  first  robin  spoke ! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not,  — 
For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 

318 


A    SEA-CHANGE,  AT    KELP    ROCK 

What  toil  and  time  should  come  to  pass, 
And  what  delight  be  missed ; 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 
To  yearn  for  unreturning  joys 

That  with  its  joy  belong. 


A   SEA-CHANGE,   AT    KELP    ROCK 

JUST  at  this  full  noon  of  summer 

There  's  a  touch,  unfelt  before, 
Charms  our  Coastland,  smoothing  from  her 

The  last  crease  her  forehead  wore : 
She,  too,  drains  the  sun-god's  potion, 

Quits  her  part  of  anchorite, 
Smiles  to  see  her  leaden  ocean 

Sparkle  in  the  austral  light ; 

While  the  tidal  depths  beneath  her 

Palpitate  with  warmth  and  love, 
And  the  infinite  pure  aether 

Floods  the  yearning  creek  and  cove, 
Harbor,  woodland,  promontory, 

Swarded  fields  that  slope  between,— 
And  our  gray  tower,  tinged  with  glory, 

Midway  flames  above  the  scene. 

On  this  day  of  all  most  luring, 

This  one  morn  of  all  the  year, 
Read  I  —  soul  and  body  curing 

In  the  seaward  loggia  here  — 
Once,  twice,  thrice,  that  chorus  sweetest 

(Fortune's  darling,  Sophokles  !) 
Of  the  grove  whose  steeds  are  fleetest, 

Nurtured  by  the  sacred  breeze ; 
319 


POEMS    OF    NATURE 

Of  Kolonos,  where  in  clusters 

Blooms  narcissus  —  where  unfold 
Ivied  trees  their  leafy  lustres 

And  the  crocus  spreads  its  gold; 
Where  the  nightingales  keep  singing 

And  the  streamlets  never  cease, 
To  the  son  of  Laius  bringing 

Rest  at  last,  forgiveness,  peace. 

Drops  the  book  —  but  from  its  prison 

Tell  me  now  what  antique  spell, 
Through  the  unclaspt  cover  risen, 

Moves  the  waves  I  know  so  well  ; 
Bids  me  find  in  them  hereafter, 

Dimpled  to  their  utmost  zone 
With  the  old  innumerous  laughter, 

An  JEgean  of  my  own  ? 


Even  so  :  the  blue 

Through  our  tendriled  arches  smiles, 
And  the  distant  empyrean 

Curves  to  kiss  enchanted  isles  : 
Isles  of  Shoals,  I  know  —  yet  fancy 

This  one  day  shall  have  free  range, 
And  yon  isles  her  necromancy 

Shall  to  those  of  Hellas  change. 

Look  !   beyond  the  lanterned  pharos 

Girt  with  reefs  that  evermore, 
Lashed  and  foaming,  cry  u  Beware  us  !  " 

Cloud-white  sails  draw  nigh  the  shore 
Sails,  methinks,  of  burnished  galleys 

Wafting  dark-browed  maids  within, 
From  those  island  hills  and  valleys, 

Dread  Athene's  grace  to  win. 


320 


A   SEA-CHANGE,  AT   KELP    ROCK 

Sandalled,  coiffed,  and  white-robed  maidens, 

Chanting  in  their  carven  boats ; 
List !  and  hear  anon  the  cadence 

Of  their  virginal  fresh  notes. 
You  shall  hear  the  choric  hymnos, 

Or  some  clear  prosodion 
Known  to  Delos,  Naxos,  Lemnos, 

Isles  beneath  the  eastern  sun. 

'T  is  the  famed  ^Eolian  quire 

Bearing  Pallas  flowers  and  fruit  — 
Some  with  white  hands  touch  the  lyre, 

Some  with  red  lips  kiss  the  flute ; 
You  shall  see  the  vestured  priestess, 

Violet-crowned,  her  chalice  swing, 
Ere  yon  cerylus  has  ceased  his 

Swirl  upon  "  the  sea-blue  wing." 

In  the  great  Panathenaea 

Climbing  marble  porch  and  stair, 
Soon  before  the  statued  Dea 

Votive  baskets  they  shall  bear, 
Sacred  palm,  and  fragrant  censer, 

Wine-cups  — 

But  what  vapor  hoar, 
What  cloud-curtain  dense,  and  denser, 

Looms  between  them  and  the  shore  ? 

Off,  thou  Norseland  Terror,  clouding 

Hellas  with  the  jealous  wraith 
Which,  the  gods  of  old  enshrouding, 

Froze  their  hearts,  the  poet  saith ! 
Vain  the  cry  :   from  yon  abysm 

Now  the  fog-horn's  woeful  blast  — 
Stern  New  England's  exorcism  !  — 

Ends  my  vision  of  the  past. 
1890. 


THE    CARIB    SEA 


KENNST  DU? 

Do  you  know  the  blue  of  the  Carib  Sea 

Far  out  where  there  's  nothing  but  sky  to  bound 

The  gaze  to  windward,  the  glance  to  lee, 

More  deep  than  the  bluest  spaces  be 

Betwixt  white  clouds  in  heaven's  round  ? 

Have  you  seen  the  liquid  lazuli  spread 

From  edge  to  edge,  so  wondrous  blue 

That  your  footfall's  trust  it  might  almost  woo, 

Were  it  smooth  and  low  for  one  to  tread  ? 

So  clear  and  warm,  so  bright,  so  dark, 

That  he  who  looks  on  it  can  but  mark 

'T  is  a  different  tide  from  the  far-away 

Perpetual  waters,  old  and  gray, 

And  can  but  wonder  if  Mother  Earth 

Has  given  a  younger  ocean  birth. 

Do  you  know  how  surely  the  trade-wind  blows 
To  west-sou'west,  through  the  whole  round  year  ? 
How,  after  the  hurricane  comes  and  goes, 
For  nine  fair  moons  there  is  naught  to  fear  ? 
How  the  brave  wind  carries  the  tide  before 
Its  breath,  and  on  to  the  southwest  shore  ? 
How  the  Caribbean  billows  roll, 

One  after  the  other,  and  climb  forever, 

The  yearning  waves  of  a  shoreless  river 
That  never,  never  can  reach  its  goal  ? 
They  follow,  follow,  now  and  for  aye, 
One  after  the  other,  brother  and  brother, 
And  their  hollow  crests  half  hide  the  play 
325 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Of  light  where  the  sun's  red  sword  thrusts  home ; 

But  still  in  a  tangled  shining  chain 

They  quiver  and  fall  and  rise  again, 

And  far  before  them  the  wind-borne  spray 

Is  shaken  on  from  their  froth  and  foam,  — 

And  for  leagues  beyond,  in  gray  and  rose, 

The  sundown  shimmering  distance  glows  ! 

So  bright,  so  swift,  so  glad,  the  sea 

That  girts  the  isles  of  Caribbee. 

Do  you  know  the  green  of  those  island  shores 

By  the  morning  sea-breeze  fanned  ? 

(The  tide  on  the  reefs  that  guard  them  roars  — 

Then  slips  by  stealth  to  the  sand.) 

Have  you  found  the  inlet,  cut  between 

Like  a  rift  across  the  crescent  moon, 

And  anchored  off  the  dull  lagoon 

Close  by  forest  fringes  green,  — 

Cool  and  green,  save  for  the  lines 

Of  yellow  cocoa-trunks  that  lean, 

Each  in  its  own  wind-nurtured  way, 

And  bend  their  fronds  to  the  wanton  vines 

Beneath  them  all  astray  ? 

Here  is  no  mangrove  warp-and-woof 

From  which  a  vapor  lifts  aloof, 

But  on  the  beaches  smooth  and  dry 

Red-lipped  conch-shells  lie  — 

Even  at  the  edge  of  that  green  wall 

Where  the  shore-grape's  tendriled  runners  spread 

And  purple  trumpet-creepers  fall, 

And  the  frangipani's  clusters  shed 

Their  starry  sweets  withal. 

The  silly  cactuses  writhe  around, 

Yet  cannot  choose  but  in  grace  to  mingle, 

This  side  the  twittering  watefs  sound, 

On  the  other  opens  a  low  green  dingle, 

326 


SARGASSO    WEED 

And  between  your  ship  and  the  shore  and  sky 
The  frigate-birds  like  fates  appear, 
The  flapping  pelican  feeds  about, 
The  tufted  cardinals  sing  and  fly. 
So  fair  the  shore,  one  has  no  fear ; 
And  the  sailors,  gathered  forward,  shout 
With  strange  glad  voices  each  to  each, — 
Though  well  the  harbor's  depth  they  know 
And  the  craven  shark  that  lurks  below,  — 
"  Ho  !   let  us  over,  and  strike  out 
Until  we  stand  upon  the  beach, 
Until  that  wonderland  we  reach  !  " 
—  So  green,  so  fair,  the  island  lies, 
As  if  't  were  adrift  from  Paradise. 


SARGASSO  WEED 

OUT  from  the  seething  Stream 

To  the  steadfast  trade-wind's  courses, 
Over  the  bright  vast  swirl 

Of  a  tide  from  evil  free, — 
Where  the  ship  has  a  level  beam, 

And  the  storm  has  spent  his  forces, 
And  the  sky  is  a  hollow  pearl 

Curved  over  a  sapphire  sea. 

Here  it  floats  as  of  old, 

Beaded  with  gold  and  amber, 
Sea-frond  buoyed  with  fruit, 

Sere  as  the  yellow  oak, 
Long  since  carven  and  scrolled, 

Of  some  blue-ceiled  Gothic  chamber 
Used  to  the  viol  and  lute 

And  the  ancient  belfry's  stroke. 

Eddying  far  and  still 

In  the  drift  that  never  ceases, 
3*7 


THE   CARIB   SEA 

The  dun  Sargasso  weed 

Slips  from  before  our  prow, 

And  its  sight  makes  strong  our  will, 
As  of  old  the  Genoese's, 

When  he  stood  in  his  hour  of  need 
On  the  Santa  Maria's  bow. 

Ay,  and  the  winds  at  play 

Toy  with  these  peopled  islands, 
Each  of  itself  as  well 

Naught  but  a  brave  New  World, 
Where  the  crab  and  sea-slug  stay 

In  the  lochs  of  its  tiny  highlands, 
And  the  nautilus  moors  his  shell 

With  his  sail  and  streamers  furled. 

Each  floats  ever  and  on 

As  the  round  green  Earth  is  floating 
Out  through  the  sea  of  space 

Bearing  our  mortal  kind, 
Parasites  soon  to  be  gone, 

Whom  others  be  sure  are  noting, 
While  to  their  astral  race 

We  in  our  turn  are  blind. 


CASTLE  ISLAND  LIGHT 


BETWEEN  the  outer  Keys, 

Where  the  drear  Bahamas  be, 
Through  a  crooked  pass  the  vessels  sail 

To  reach  the  Carib  Sea. 

ST  is  the  Windward  Passage,  long  and  dread, 
From  bleak  San  Salvador ; 

328 


CASTLE    ISLAND    LIGHT 

(Three  thousand  miles  the  wave  must  roll 
Ere  it  wash  the  Afric  shore). 

Here  are  the  coral  reefs 

That  hold  their  booty  fast ; 
The  sea-fan  blooms  in  groves  beneath, 

And  sharks  go  lolling  past. 

Hither  and  yon  the  sand-bars  lie 
Where  the  prickly  bush  has  grown, 

And  where  the  rude  sponge-fisher  dwells 
In  his  wattled  hut,  alone. 

Southward,  amid  the  strait, 

Is  the  Castle  Island  Light ; 
Of  all  that  bound  the  ocean  round 

It  has  the  loneliest  site. 


ii 

'TwiXT  earth  and  heaven  the  waves  are  driven 

Sorely  upon  its  flank ; 
The  light  streams  out  for  sea-leagues  seven 

To  the  Great  Bahama  Bank. 

A  girded  tower,  a  furlong  scant 

Of  whitened  sand  and  rock, 
And  one  sole  being  the  waters  seeing, 

Where  the  gull  and  gannet  flock. 

He  is  the  warder  of  the  pass 

That  mariners  must  find ; 
His  beard  drifts  down  like  the  ashen  moss 

Which  hangs  in  the  southern  wind. 

The  old  man  hoar  stands  on  the  shore 
And  bodes  the  withering  gale, 
329 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

Or  wonders  whence  from  the  distant  world 
Will  come  the  next  dim  sail. 

From  the  Northern  Main,  from  England, 
From  France,  the  craft  go  by ; 

Yet  sometimes  one  will  stay  her  course 
That  must  his  wants  supply. 


in 


IN  a  Christmas  storm  the  "  Claribel  "  struck 
At  night,  on  the  Pelican  Shoal, 

But  the  keeper's  wife  heard  not  the  guns 
And  the  bell's  imploring  toll. 

She  died  ere  the  gale  went  down, 

Wept  by  her  daughters  three  — 
Sun-flecked,  yet  fair,  with  their  English  hair, 

Nymphs  of  the  wind  and  sea. 

With  sail  and  oar  some  island  shore 

At  will  their  skiffs  might  gain, 
But  they  never  had  known  the  kiss  of  man, 

Nor  had  looked  on  the  peopled  main, 

Nor  heard  of  the  old  man  Atlas, 

Who  holds  the  unknown  seas, 
And  the  golden  fruit  that  is  guarded  well 

By  the  young  Hesperides. 


IV 

WHO  steers  by  Castle  Island  Light 

May  hear  the  seamen  tell 
How  one,  the  mate,  alone  was  saved 

From  the  wreck  of  the  "  Claribel  " 

330 


CASTLE    ISLAND    LIGHT 

And  how  for  months  he  tarried 

With  the  keeper  on  the  isle, 
And  for  each  of  the  blue-eyed  daughters 

Had  ever  a  word  or  a  smile. 

Between  the  two  that  loved  him 

He  lightly  made  his  choice, 
And  betimes  a  chance  ship  took  them  off 

From  the  father's  sight  and  voice. 

The  second  her  trouble  could  not  bear,  — 

So  wild  her  thoughts  had  grown 
That  she  fled  with  a  lurking  smuggler's  crew, 

But  whither  was  never  known. 

Then  the  keeper  aged  like  Lear, 

Left  with  one  faithful  child; 
But  't  was  ill  to  see  a  maid  so  young 

Who  never  sang  or  smiled. 

'T  is  sad  to  bide  with  an  old,  old  man, 

And  between  the  wave  and  sky 
To  watch  all  day  the  sea-fowl  play, 

While  lone  ships  hasten  by. 


THERE  came,  anon,  the  white  full  moon 

That  rules  the  middle  year, 
Before  whose  sheen  the  lesser  stars 

Grow  pale  and  disappear. 

It  glistened  down  on  a  lighthouse  tower, 

A  beach  on  either  hand, 
And  the  features  wan  of  a  gray  old  man 

Digging  a  grave  in  the  sand. 

331 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

CHRISTOPHE 

(CAPE  HAYTIEN) 

"  KING  HENRI  is  King  Stephen's  peer, 
His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown  !  " 

So  from  the  old  world  came  the  jeer 
Of  them  who  hunted  Toussaint  down  : 

But  what  was  this  grim  slave  that  swept 

The  shambles,  then  to  greatness  leapt  ? 

Their  counterfeit  in  bronze,  a  thing 

To  mock,  —  or  every  inch  a  king  ? 

On  San-Souci's  defiant  wall 

His  people  saw,  against  the  sky, 
Christophe,  —  a  shape  the  height  of  Saul, — 

A  chief  who  brooked  no  rivals  nigh. 
Right  well  he  aped  the  antique  state ; 
His  birth  was  mean,  his  heart  was  great ; 
No  azure  filled  his  veins,  —  instead, 
The  Afric  torrent,  hot  and  red. 

He  built  far  up  the  mountain-side 

A  royal  keep,  and  walled  it  round 
With  towers  the  palm-tops  could  not  hide ; 

The  ramparts  toward  ocean  frowned ; 
Beneath,  within  the  rock-hewn  hold, 
He  heaped  a  monarch's  store  of  gold  ; 
He  made  his  nobles  in  a  breath ; 
He  held  the  power  of  life  and  death  ; 

And  here  through  torrid  years  he  ruled 
The  Haitian  horde,  a  despot  king, — 

Mocked  Europe's  pomp,  —  her  minions  schooled 
In  trade  and  war  and  parleying, — 

Yet  reared  his  dusky  heirs  in  vain  : 
332 


LA   SOURCE 

To  end  the  drama,  Fate  grew  fain, 

Uprose  a  rebel  tide,  and  flowed 

Close  to  the  threshold  where  he  strode. 

"  And  now  the  Black  must  exit  make, 

A  craven  at  the  last,"  they  say  : 
Not  so,  —  Christophe  his  leave  will  take 

The  long  unwonted  Roman  way. 
u  Ho  !   Ho  !  "  cried  he,  "  the  day  is  done, 
And  I  go  down  with  the  setting  sun  !  " 
A  pistol-shot,  —  no  sign  of  fear,  — 
So  died  Christophe  without  a  peer. 


LA   SOURCE 

(PORT-AU-PRINCE) 

A  HAUNT  the  mountain  roadside  near, 
Wherefrom  the  cliff  that  rose  behind 
Kept  back,  through  all  the  tropic  year, 
The  sundrouth  and  the  whirling  wind ; 
These  here  could  never  entrance  find ; 
Perpetual  summer  balm  it  knew; 
And  skyward,  thick  set  boughs  entwined 
Their  coil,  where  birds  made  sweet  ado, 
And  heaven  through  glossy  leaves  was  deepest  blue. 

Twin  relics  of  some  forest  grim, 
The  last  of  their  primeval  race 
Left  scatheless,  knit  them  limb  with  limb 
Above  the  reaches  of  that  place  ; 
Time's  hand  against  their  high  embrace 
For  seeming  centuries  had  striven, 
But  yet  they  grappled  face  to  face, 
Still  from  their  olden  guard  undriven 
Though  at  their  feet  the  cliff  itself  was  riven. 
333 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

And  from  the  rift  a  stream  outflowed, 
The  fountain  of  that  cloven  grot,  — 
La  Source  !    Along  the  downward  road 
It  speeded,  pitying  the  lot 
Of  dwellers  in  each  hot-roofed  spot 
Which  fiery  noonday  held  in  rule,— 
Yet  at  the  start  neglected  not 
To  broaden  into  one  deep  pool 
Beneath  those  trees  its  staunchless  waters  cool. 

Near  the  green  edge  of  this  recess 
We  made  our  halt,  and  marvelled,  more 
Than  at  its  sudden  loveliness, 
To  find  reborn  that  life  of  yore 
When  ocean  to  Nausicaa  bore 
The  wanderer  from  Calypso  strayed,  — 
For  here  swart  dames,  and  beldames  hoar, 
With  many  a  round-limbed  supple  maid, 
Plashed  in  the  pool  and  eyed  us  unafraid. 

The  simple,  shameless  washers  there, 
Dusk  children  of  the  Haitian  sun, 
Bent  to  the  work  their  bodies,  bare 
And  brown,  nor  thought  our  gaze  to  shun,- 
Save  that  an  elfish  withered  one, 
Scolding  the  white-toothed  girls,  set  free 
Her  tongue,  and  bade  them  now  have  done 
With  saucy  pranks,  nor  wanton  be 
Before  us  stranger  folk  from  over  sea. 

But  on  the  sward  one  rose  full  length 
From  her  sole  covering,  and  stood 
Defiant  in  the  beauteous  strength 
Of  nature  unabashed  :   a  nude 
And  wilding  slip  of  womanhood. 
Now  for  the  master-hand,  that  shaped 
The  Indian  Hunter  in  his  wood, 
334 


TO    L.   H.  S. 

To  mould  that  lissome  form  undraped 
Ere  from  its  grace  the  sure  young  lines  escaped  ! 

Straight  as  the  aloe's  crested  shoot 
That  blooms  a  golden  month  and  dies, 
She  stayed  an  instant,  with  one  foot 
On  tiptoe,  poising  statue-wise, 
And  stared,  and  mocked  us  with  her  eyes, — 
While  rippling  to  her  hip's  firm  swell 
The  mestee  hair,  that  so  outvies 
Europe's  soft  mesh,  and  holds  right  well 
The  Afric  sheen,  in  one  dark  torrent  fell. 

Ft,  Ang'ellque !  we  heard  them  scream,  — 
What,  could  that  child,  in  twice  her  years, 
Change  to  their  like  from  this  fair  dream  ! 
Ft  done  !  —  But  she,  as  one  who  hears 
And  cares  not,  at  her  leisure  nears 
The  pool,  and  toward  her  mates  at  play 
Plunges,  —  and  laughter  filled  our  ears 
As  from  La  Source  we  turned  away 
And  rode  again  into  the  glare  of  day. 


TO    L.  H.  S. 

LOVE,  these  vagrant  songs  may  woo  you 
Once  again  from  winter's  ruth, — 
Once  more  quicken  memories  failing 
Of  those  days  when  we  went  sailing, 
Eager  as  when  first  I  knew  you, 
Sailing  after  my  lost  youth. 

My  lost  youth,  for  in  my  sight  you 

Had  yourself  forborne  to  change 
Since  that  age  when  we,  together, 
Made  such  mock  of  wind  and  weather, 
335 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

Sought  alone  what  might  delight  you, — 

Ah,  how  sweet,  how  far,  how  strange  ! 

Yet,  though  scarcely  else  anear  you 

Than  Tithonus  to  Aurore, 
I  am  still  by  Time  requited, 
Still  can  vaunt,  as  when  we  plighted, 
Sight  to  see  you,  ear  to  hear  you, 

Voice  to  sing  you,  if  no  more. 

And  in  thought  I  yet  behold  you 

Nearing  the  enchanted  zone, — 
(With  delight  of  life  the  stronger 
As  we  sailed,  each  blue  league  longer, 
Toward  the  shore  of  which  I  told  you, 
And  the  stars  myself  had  known), — 

Wondering  at  the  hue  beneath  you 
Of  the  restless  shining  waves, 
Asking  of  the  palm  and  coral,  — 
Of  the  white  cascades  —  the  floral 
Ridges  waiting  long  to  wreath  you 

With  the  blooms  our  Norseland  craves. 

Winds  enow  since  then  have  kissed  you, 

On  their  way  to  bless  or  blight ; 
Little  may  these  songs  recover 
Of  that  dream-life  swiftly  over,— 
Nay,  but  Love,  a  moment  list  you, 

Since  none  else  can  set  them  right. 

More  and  ever  more,  the  while  you 

Sailed  where  every  distance  gleams, 

Passed  all  sorrow,  died  all  anger, 

In  the  clime  of  love  and  languor, 

Till  we  reached  the  mist-hung  isle  you 
Called  the  haunted  Isle  of  Dreams. 
336 


JAMAICA 


JAMAICA 

I  KNOW  an  island  which  the  sun 

Stays  in  his  course  to  shine  upon, 

As  if  it  were  for  this  green  isle 

Alone  he  kept  his  fondest  smile. 

Long  his  rays  delaying  flood 

Its  remotest  solitude, 

Mountain,  dell,  and  palmy  wood, 

And  the  coral  sands  around 

That  hear  the  blue  sea's  chiming  sound. 

It  is  a  watered  island,  one 
The  upland  rains  pour  down  upon. 
Oft  the  westward-floating  cloud 
To  some  purple  crest  is  bowed, 
While  the  tangled  vapors  seek 
To  escape  from  peak  and  peak, 
Yield  themselves,  and  break,  or  glide 
Through  deep  forests  undescried, 
Mourning  their  lost  pathway  wide. 

In  this  land  of  woods  and  streams 
Ceaseless  Summer  paints  her  dreams: 
White,  bewildered  torrents  fall, 
Dazzled  by  her  morning  beams, 
With  an  outcry  musical 
From  the  ridges,  plainward  all; 
Mists  of  pearl,  arising  there, 
Mark  their  courses  in  the  air, 
Sunlit,  magically  fair. 

Here  the  pilgrim  may  behold 
How  the  bended  cocoa  waves 
When  at  eve  and  morn  a  breeze 
Blows  to  and  from  the  Carib  seas, 
337 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

How  the  lush  banana  leaves 
From  their  braided  trunk  unfold ; 
How  the  mango  wears  its  gold, 
And  the  sceptred  aloe's  bloom 
Glorifies  it  for  the  tomb. 

When  the  day  has  ended  quite, 
Splendor  fills  the  drooping  skies; 
All  is  beauty,  naught  is  night. 
Then  the  Crosses  twain  arise, 
Southward  far,  above  the  deep, 
And  the  moon  their  light  outvies. 
Hark  !  the  wakened  lute  and  song 
That  to  this  fond  clime  belong, — 
All  is  music,  naught  is  sleep. 

Isle  of  plenty,  isle  of  love  ! 
In  the  low,  encircling  plain, 
Laboring  Afric,  loaded  wain, 
Bearing  sweets  and  spices,  move; 
On  the  happy  heights  above 
Love  his  seat  has  chosen  well, 
Dreamful  ease  and  silence  dwell, 
Life  is  all  entranced,  and  time 
Passes  like  a  tinkling  rhyme. 

Ah,  on  those  cool  heights  to  dwell 
Yielded  to  the  island's  spell ! 
There  from  some  low-whispering  mouth 
To  learn  the  secret  of  the  South, 
Or  to  watch  dark  eyes  that  close 
When  their  sleep  the  noondays  bring, 
(List,  the  palm  leaves  murmuring !) 
And  the  wind  that  comes  and  goes 
Smells  of  every  flower  that  blows. 


338 


CREOLE   LOVER'S   SONG 

Or  from  ocean  to  descry 
Green  plantations  sloping  nigh, 
Starry  peaks,  of  beryl  hewn, 
Whose  strong  footholds  hidden  lie 
Furlong  deep  beneath  the  sea  ! 
Long  the  mariners  wistfully 
Landward  gaze,  and  say  aright, 
Under  sun  or  under  moon 
Earth  has  no  more  beauteous  sight ! 


CREOLE    LOVER'S   SONG 

NIGHT  wind,  whispering  wind, 
Wind  of  the  Carib  sea  ! 

The  palms  and  the  still  lagoon 

Long  for  thy  coming  soon  ; 

But  first  my  lady  find  : 

Hasten,  nor  look  behind  ! 

To-night  Love's  herald  be. 

The  feathery  bamboo  moves, 

The  dewy  plantains  weep ; 
From  the  jasmine  thickets  bear 
The  scents  that  are  swooning  there, 
And  steal  from  the  orange  groves 
The  breath  of  a  thousand  loves 
To  waft  her  ere  she  sleep. 

And  the  lone  bird's  tender  song 

That  rings  from  the  ceiba  tree, 
The  firefly's  light,  and  the  glow 
Of  the  moonlit  waters  low, — 
All  things  that  to  night  belong 
And  can  do  my  love  no  wrong 
Bear  her  this  hour  for  me. 

339 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Speed  thee,  wind  of  the  deep, 

For  the  cyclone  comes  in  wrath! 

The  distant  forests  moan  ; 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  thine  own,  — 

An  hour  thy  tryst  to  keep, 

Ere  the  hounds  of  tempest  leap 
And  follow  upon  thy  path. 

Whisperer,  tarry  a  space  ! 

She  waits  for  thee  in  the  night ; 
She  leans  from  the  casement  there 
With  the  star-blooms  in  her  hair, 
And  a  shadow  falls  like  lace 
From  the  fern-tree  over  her  face, 

And  over  her  mantle  white. 

Spirit  of  air  and  fire, 

To-night  my  herald  be! 
Tell  her  I  love  her  well, 
And  all  that  I  bid  thee,  tell, 
And  fold  her  ever  the  nigher 
With  the  strength  of  my  soul's  desire, 
Wind  of  the  Carib  sea  ' 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  JASMINE 

Now  dies  the  rippling  murmur  of  the  strings 
That  followed  long,  half-striving  to  retake, 
The  burden  of  the  lover's  ended  song. 
Silence  !  but  we  who  listened  linger  yet, 
Two  of  the  soul's  near  portals  still  unclosed  — 
Sight  and  the  sense  of  odor.    At  our  feet, 
Beneath  the  open  jalousies,  is  spread 
A  copse  of  leaf  and  bloom,  a  knotted  wild 
Of  foliage  and  purple  flowering  vines, 
With  here  a  dagger-plant  to  pierce  them  through, 
340 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE   JASMINE 

And  there  a  lone  papaya  lifting  high 

Its  golden-gourded  cresset.    Night's  high  noon 

Is  luminous;  that  swooning  silvery  hour 

When  .the  concentrate  spirit  of  the  South 

Grows  visible  —  so  rare,  and  yet  so  filled 

With  tremulous  pulsation  that  it  seems 

All  light  and  fragrance  and  ethereal  dew. 

Two  vases  —  carved  from  some  dark,  precious  wood, 

The  red-grained  heart  of  olden  trees  that  cling 

To  yonder  mountain  —  in  the  moonlight  cast 

Their  scrolls'  deep  shadows  on  the  glassy  floor. 

A  proud  exotic  Rose,  brought  from  the  North, 

Is  set  within  the  one ;  the  other  bears 

A  double  Jasmine  for  its  counter-charm. 

Here  on  their  thrones,  in  equal  high  estate, 

The  rivals  bloom ;  and  both  have  drunk  the  dew, 

Tending  their  beauty  in  the  midnight  air, 

Until  their  sovereign  odors  meet  and  blend, 

As  voices  blend  that  whisper  melody, 

Now  each  distinct,  now  mingled  both  in  one : 

JASMINE 

I,  like  a  star,  against  the  woven  gloom 
Of  tresses  on  Dolores'  brow  shall  rest. 

ROSE 

And  I  one  happy,  happy  night  shall  bloom 
Twined  in  the  border  of  her  silken  vest. 

JASMINE 

Throughout  our  isle  the  guardian  winds  deprive 
Of  all  their  sweets  a  hundred  common  flowers, 

To  feed  my  heart  with  fragrance  !   Lone  they  live, 
And  drop  their  petals  far  from  trellised  bowers. 
34* 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

ROSE 

Within  the  garden-plot  whence  I  was  borne 
No  rifled  sisterhood  became  less  fine ; 

My  wealth  made  not  the  violet  forlorn, 

And  near  me  climbed  the  fearless  eglantine. 

JASMINE 

Who  feels  my  breath  recalls  the  orange  court, 
The  terraced  walks  that  jut  upon  the  sea, 

The  water  in  the  moonlit  bay  amort, 

The  midnight  given  to  longing  and  to  me. 

ROSE 

Who  scents  my  blossoms  dreams  of  bordered  meads 
Deep  down  the  hollow  of  some  vale  far  "north, 

Where  Cuthbert  with  the  fair-haired  Hilda  pleads, 
And  overhead  the  stars  of  June  come  forth. 

JASMINE 

Me  with  full  hands  enamored  Manuel 

Gathers  for  dark-browed  Inez  at  his  side, 

And  both  to  love  are  quickened  by  my  spell, 
And  chide  the  day  that  doth  their  joys  divide. 

ROSE 

Nay,  but  all  climes,  all  tender  sunlit  lands 

From  whose  high  places  spring  the  palm  or  pine, 

Desire  my  gifts  to  grace  the  wedded  bands, 
And  every  home  for  me  has  placed  a  shrine. 

JASMINE 

Fold  up  thy  heart,  proud  virgin,  ay,  and  blush 
With  all  the  crimson  tremors  thou  canst  vaunt ! 

My  yearning  waves  of  passion  onward  rush, 
And  long  the  lover's  wistful  memory  haunt. 
342 


FERN-LAND 

ROSE 

Pale  temptress,  the  night's  revel  be  thine  own, 
Till  love  shall  pall  and  rapture  have  its  fill ! 

The  morn's  fresh  light  still  finds  me  on  a  throne 
Where  care  is  not,  nor  blissful  pains  that  kill. 

JASMINE 

Sweet,  sweet  my  breath,  oh,  sweet  beyond  compare! 

ROSE 
Rare,  rare  the  splendors  of  my  regal  crown ! 

BOTH 

Choose  which  thou  wilt,  bold  lover,  yet  beware 
Lest  to  a  luckless  choice  thou  bendest  down  ! 


FERN-LAND 


HITHER,  where  a  woven  roof 
Keeps  the  prying  sun  aloof 

From  wonderland, 
From  the  fairies  underland, — 
Hither,  where  strange  grasses  grow 
With  their  curling  rootlets  set 
'Twixt  the  black  roots  serpentine, 
Laurel  roots  that  twist  and  twine 
Toward  the  cloven  path  below 
Of  some  cloud-born  rivulet, — 

This  way  enter 

Fern-Land,  and  from  rim  to  centre 
All  its  secrets  shall  be  thine. 

343 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

ii 

HERE  within  the  covert  see 
Fern-Land's  mimic  forestry; 

Royal  tree-ferns 
Canopy  the  nestling  wee  ferns 
That  with  every  pointed  frond 
Lend  their  lords  a  duteous  ear ; 
Golden  ferns  a  sunshine  make  — - 
Fleck  their  beauty  on  the  brake ; 
In  their  moonlight  close  beyond 
Silver  ferns  like  sprites  appear. 

Here  beholden, 

Purple,  silver,  green,  and  golden, 
Mingle  for  their  own  sweet  sake. 

in 

DAY'S  sure  horologe  of  flowers 
Marks  in  turn  the  honeyed  hours; 

Blossoms  dangle, 
Lithe  lianas  twist  and  tangle ; 
Here  on  the  lagetta  tree 
Laboring  elves  at  starlight  weave 
Filmy  bride-veils  of  its  spray, 
Shot  with  the  cocuya's  ray,  — 
For  in  fairy-land  we  be  ! 
Look,  and  you  shall  well  believe 

Oberon  reigneth, 
And  Titania  disdaineth, 
Still,  to  yield  her  lord  his  way. 

IV 

HERE,  unseen  by  grosser  light, 
Fairy-land,  at  noon  of  night 

Holidaying, 

Sallies  forth  in  fine  arraying; 
344 


FERN-LAND 

Elfin,  sylphide,  fay,  and  gnome 
On  the  dew-tipped  ferns  disport, 
In  the  festooned  creepers  swing, 
Their  light  plumage  fluttering. 
Fern-Land  is  their  ancient  home, 
Here  the  monarch  holds  his  court, 

Puck  abideth  ; 

Here  the  Queen  her  changeling  hideth, 
Ariel  doth  merrily  sing. 


HERE,  when  Dian  shuns  the  sky, 
Swift  the  winged  watchmen  fly,  — 

Flash  their  torches 
In  and  out  mimosa  porches 
Till  the  first  pale  glint  of  morn  : 
Then  the  little  people  change 
Casque  and  doublet,  robe  and  sash, 
In  the  twinkling  of  a  lash, 
For  the  magic  mantles  worn 
Warily  where  mortals  range, 

And  beside  us 

Now  unseen,  with  glee  deride  us, 
Laugh  to  scorn  our  trespass  rash. 


VI 


THEN  the  gnomes,  that  change  to  newts, 
Lurk  about  the  tree-fern's  roots ; 

Their  commander 
Is  the  frog-mouthed  salamander 
Who  will  marshal  in  the  sun 
Red-backed  lizards  from  the  vines, 
Eft  and  newt  from  bog  and  spring, — 
Many  a  crested,  horny  thing 
Sharp-eyed,  fearsome,  —  and  that  one 
With  the  loathly  spotted  lines  ! 
345 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

Mortal  heedeth 

Him,  whose  breath  of  poison  speedeth 
Them  that  chafe  the  elfin  king. 

VII 

MOTHS  above,  that  feed  on  dew, 
Flit  their  wings  of  gold  and  blue, — 

Fancy  guesses 

These  must  be  the  court-princesses : 
Others  are  in  durance  pent, 
Changed  to  orchids  for  their  tricks,  — 
Wantons  they,  who  must  remain 
All  day  long  in  beauteous  pain 
Till  stern  Oberon  relent, 
Pardon  grant,  and  seal  affix. 

Each  repineth 

Thus  until  the  monarch  dineth 
And,  content,  doth  loose  her  chain. 

VIII 

WOULD  you  had  the  fine,  fine  ear 
The  dragonfly's  recall  to  hear,— 

Tiny  words 

Of  the  vibrant  hummingbirds 
That,  where  bloom  convolvuli, 
Round  the  dew-cups  whir  and  hover, 
Thrusting  each,  hour  after  hour, 
His  keen  bill  to  heart  o'  the  flower, 
As  some  mounted  knight  may  ply 
His  long  lance,  an  eager  lover, 

Through  deep  sedges, 
And  athrough  the  coppice  edges, 
Fain  to  reach  his  lady's  bower. 

IX 

WHILST  the  emerald  lancers  poise 
In  the  soft  air  without  noise, 
346 


MORGAN 

Brake  and  mould 
Hoard  their  marvels  manifold. 
There  the  armored  beetles  creep, 
Shrouding  in  unseemly  fear 
Each  his  shield  of  chrysoprase 
Lest  its  gleam  himself  betrays 
For  our  kind  to  seize  and  keep 
Prisoned  in  a  damsel's  ear. 

Each  one  stealeth 
Dumbly,  and  his  dull  way  feeleth 
Until  starlight  shall  appear. 


STEP  you  soft,  be  mute  and  wary 
Lest  you  wake  the  lords  of  Faery  ! 

Motion  rude 

Fits  not  with  their  solitude  : 
Else  the  spider  will  resent 
And  the  beetle  nip  you  well, 
Bete-rouge  in  your  neck  will  furrow, 
Garapata  dig  his  burrow  :  — 
Dread  the  wasp's  swift  punishment 
And  the  chegoe's  vengeance  fell  : 

Well-defended, 

Fairies  sleep  till  day  hath  ended,  — 
Leave  we  Fern-Land  and  its  spell. 


MORGAN 

OH,  what  a  set  of  Vagabundos, 
Sons  of  Neptune,  sons  of  Mars, 

Raked  from  todos  otros  mundos, 
Lascars,  Gascons,  Portsmouth  tars, 

Prison  mate  and  dock-yard  fellow, 
Blades  to  Meg  and  Molly  dear, 

347 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Off  to  capture  Porto  Bello 

Sailed  with  Morgan  the  Buccaneer! 

Out  they  voyaged  from  Port  Royal 

(Fathoms  deep  its  ruins  be, 
Pier  and  convent,  fortress  loyal, 

Sunk  beneath  the  gaping  sea)  ; 
On  the  Spaniard's  beach  they  landed, 

Dead  to  pity,  void  of  fear,  — 
Round  their  blood-red  flag  embanded, 

Led  by  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 

Dawn  till  dusk  they  stormed  the  castle, 

Beat  the  gates  and  gratings  down  ; 
Then,  with  ruthless  rout  and  wassail, 

Night  and  day  they  sacked  the  town, 
Staved  the  bins  its  cellars  boasted, 

Port  and  Lisbon,  tier  on  tier, 
Quaffed  to  heart's  content,  and  toasted 

Harry  Morgan  the  Buccaneer : 

Stripped  the  church  and  monastery, 

Racked  the  prior  for  his  gold, 
With  the  traders'  wives  made  merry, 

Lipped  the  young  and  mocked  the  old, 
Diced  for  hapless  senoritas 

(Sire  and  brother  bound  anear), — 
Juanas,  Lolas,  Manuelitas, 

Cursing  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 

Lust  and  rapine,  flame  and  slaughter, 

Forayed  with  the  Welshman  grim  : 

"  Take  my  pesos,  spare  my  daughter !  " 

"  Ha  1   ha  !  "  roared  the  devil's  limb, 

"  These  shall  jingle  in  our  pouches, 

She  with  us  shall  find  good  cheer." 

348 


CAPTAIN   FRANCISCA 

a  Lash  the  graybeard  till  he  crouches  !  " 
Shouted  Morgan  the  Buccaneer. 

Out  again  through  reef  and  breaker, 

While  the  Spaniard  moaned  his  fate, 
Back  they  voyaged  to  Jamaica, 

Flush  with  doubloons,  coins  of  eight, 
Crosses  wrung  from  Popish  varlets, 

Jewels  torn  from  arm  and  ear, — 
Jesu  !  how  the  Jews  and  harlots 

Welcomed  Morgan  the  Buccaneer  ! 


CAPTAIN    FRANCISCA 

OFF  Maracaibo's  wall 
The  squadron  lay  : 
The  dykes  are  carried  all 

With  storm  and  shout ! 
Le  Basque  and  Lolonnois 
On  land  their  crews  deploy, 
Through  all  that  ruthless  day 
The  Spaniards  rout. 

They  sack  the  captured  town 

Ere  set  of  sun  ; 
Their  blood-red  pennons  crown 

The  convent  tower: 
Then  Du  Plessis,  the  bold, 
Cries  :  "  Take  my  share  of  gold  ! 
For  me  this  pretty  one, 
This  cloister  flower !  " 

Dice,  drink,  and  song,  the  while 

They  seek  anew 
The  filibusters'  isle, 
Tortuga's  port. 
349 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

Swift  was  the  craft  that  bore 
Francisca  from  her  shore; 
Red-handed  were  its  crew 
And  grim  their  sport. 

Unbraided  fell  her  hair, 

A  tropic  cloud; 
Seven  days,  with  sob  and  prayer, 

She  mourned  the  dead ; 
Like  rain  her  tears  fell ; 
But  Du  Plessis  right  well 
By  saint  and  relic  vowed 
As  on  they  sped. 

Ere  past  the  Mer  du  Nord 

She  smiled  apace ; 
Her  dark  eyes  evermore 

Sought  his  alone. 
Hot  wooed  the  Chevalier; 
His  outlaw-priest  was  near : 

Forsworn  were  home  and  race, 
She  was  his  own. 

Now  cruel  Lolonnois 

And  fierce  La  Basque 
Unlade  with  wolfish  joy 

The  cargazon  ; 
Land  all  their  ribald  braves, 
Captives  and  naked  slaves, 
With  many  a  bale  and  cask, 
By  rapine  won ; 

Armor  and  altar-plate 
Brought  over  sea  : 
Pesos,  a  countless  weight, 
The  horde  divide  — 
350 


CAPTAIN    FRANCISCA 

To  each  an  equal  share, 
Else  blades  are  in  the  air ! 
Cries  Du  Plessis  :  "  For  me, 
My.  ship,  and  bride  !  " 

They  sailed  the  Mer  du  Nord, 

The  Carib  Sea, 
Whose  galleons  fled  before 

The  Frenchman's  crew ; 
But,  in  one  deadly  fight, 
A  swivel  aimed  aright 

Brought  down  young  Du  Plessis, 
Shot  through  and  through. 

Wild  heart  of  France,  in  pride 

And  ruin  bred ! 
Against  a  heart  he  died, 

As  brave,  as  free. 
Sternly  she  bade  his  men 
First  sink  the  prize,  and  then 
Name  one  that  in  his  stead 
Their  chief  should  be. 

Each  red-shirt  laid  his  hand 

Upon  the  Cross, 
Swearing,  at  her  command, 
Vengeance  to  wreak ; 
To  scour  the  blue  sea  there 
And  seek  the  Spaniards'  lair, 
From  Gracias  a  Dios 
To  Porto  Rique. 

His  corse  the  deep  she  gave, 

Her  life  to  hate ; 
Upon  the  land  and  wave 
Brought  sudden  fear : 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

No  bearded  Capitan, 
Since  first  their  woes  began, 
(The  orphaned  ninas  prate), 
Cost  them  so  dear ! 

From  Maracaibo's  Bay 

Anon  put  out 
A  frigate  to  waylay 

This  ranger  dark. 
It  crossed  the  Mer  du  Nord, 
And,  off  San  Salvador, 

Stayed,  with  defiance  stout, 
Francisca's  barque. 

They  grappled  stern  and  prow 

Till  the  guns  kissed  ! 
Girt  like  her  rovers,  now 
She  bids  them  board: 
The  first  her  blade  had  shorn 
Was  her  own  brother  born. 
Blindly  she  smote,  nor  wist 
Whose  life-stream  poured. 

Yet,  as  he  fell,  one  ball 

His  sure  aim  sped. 
Her  lips  the  battle-call 

Essay  in  vain. 

Then  deathful  stroke  on  stroke, 
Curses  and  powder-smoke, 
And  blood  like  water  shed 
Above  the  twain  ! 

No  quarter  give  or  take  ! 

The  decks  are  gore ; 
Fresh  gaps  the  Spaniards  make, 
Charging  anew  : 
352 


PANAMA 

u  Death  to  the  buccaneer ! 
No  more  our  fleet  shall  fear, 
That  sails  the  Mer  du  Nord, 
This  corsair  crew  !  " 

—  On  thy  lone  strand  was  made, 

San  Salvador, 
One  grave  where  two  were  laid 

For  bane  or  boon  ! 
The  last  of  all  their  race, 
To  each  an  equal  place. 

Guards  well  that  sombre  shore 
The  still  lagoon. 


PANAMA 

Two  towers  the  old  Cathedral  lifts 

Above  the  sea-walled  town,  — 
The  wild  pine  bristles  from  their  rifts, 

The  runners  dangle  down  ; 
In  either  turret,  staves  in  hand, 
All  day  the  mongrel  ringers  stand 
And  sound,  far  over  bay  and  land, 
The  Bells  of  Panama. 

Loudly  the  cracked  bells,  overhead, 

Of  San  Francisco  ding, 
With  Santa  Ana,  La  Merced, 

Felipe,  answering ; 

Banged  all  at  once,  and  four  times  four, 
Morn,  noon,  and  night,  the  more  and  more 
Clatter  and  clang  with  huge  uproar 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 

From  out  their  roosts  the  bellmen  see 
The  red-tiled  roofs  below, — 
353 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

The  Plaza  folk  that  lazily 

To  mass  and  cockpit  go,— 
Then  pound  afresh,  with  clamor  fell, 
Each  ancient,  broken,  thrice-blest  bell, 
Till  thrice  our  mouths  have  cursed  as  well 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 

The  Cordillera  guards  the  main 

As  when  Pedrarias  bore 
The  cross,  the  castled  flag  of  Spain, 

To  the  Pacific  shore ; 
The  tide  still  ebbs  a  league  from  quay, 
The  buzzards  scour  the  emptied  Bay  : 
"  There  's  a  heretic  to  singe  to-day,  — 
Come  out !   Come  out !  "  —  still  strive  to  say 

The  Bells  of  Panama. 


MARTINIQUE    IDYL 

LOVE,  the  winds  long  to  lure  you  to  their  home, 
To  tempt  you  on  beneath  the  northern  arch ! 

There,  in  the  swift,  bright  summer,  you  and  I 

May  loiter  where  the  elms'  deep  shadows  lie  ; 

There,  by  our  household  fire,  bid  Yule-tide  come, 
And  winter's  cold,  and  every  gust  of  March. 

Stay,  O  stay  with  me  here,  and  chasten 
Tour  heart  still  longing  to  wander  more  ! 

Ever  the  restless  winds  are  winging, 

But  the  white-plumed  egrets,  skyward-springing, 

Over  our  blue  sea  hover,  and  hasten 
To  light  anew  on  their  own  dear  shore. 

The  lips  grow  tired  of  honey,  the  cloyed  ear 
Of  music,  and  of  light  the  eyelids  tire. 
354 


MARTINIQUE    IDYL 

I  weary  of  the  sky's  eternal  balm, 

The  ceaseless  droop  and  rustle  of  the  palm  ; 

Only  your  whisper,  love,  constrains  me  here 

From  that  brave  clime  I  would  you  might  desire. 

Cold,  ah,  cold  is  the  sky,  and  leaden, 

There  where  earth  rounds  off  to  the  pole  ! 

Still  by  kisses  the  moments  number,  — 

Here  are  sweetness,  and  rest,  and  slumber, 

All  to  lighten  and  naught  to  deaden 

The  heart's  low  murmur,  the  captured  soul. 

Dear,  I  would  have  you  yearn,  amid  these  sweets, 
For  the  clear  breeze  that  blows  from  waters  gray, 

For  some  fresh,  northern  hill-top,  overgrown 

With  bush  and  bloom  and  brake  to  you  unknown  ; 

There,  while  the  hidden  thrush  his  song  repeats, 
The  rose  shall  tinge  your  cheek  the  livelong  day. 

Stay  in  the  clime  where  living  is  loving 

And  the  lips  make  music  unaware. 
Where  copses  thrill  with  the  wood-doves'  cooing, 
And  astral  moths  on  the  flight  are  wooing ; 
While  the  light  colibris  poise  unmoving,  — 

Winged  Loves  that  mate  in  the  trembling  air. 

Nay,  love  itself  will  languish  in  the  days 

When  Summer  never  doffs  his  burning  helm. 
No  lasting  links  to  bind  the  soul  are  wrought 
Where  passion  takes  no  deeper  cast  from  thought  j 
Ah  !   lend  your  ear  a  moment  to  the  lays 
Our  poets  sing  you  of  a  trustier  realm  ! 

Under  the  cocoa-fronds  that  flutter, 

Here,  where  the  lush  white  trumpet-flower 
And  the  curled  lianas  roof  us  over, 
So  that  no  evil  thing  discover 
355 


THE    CARIB   SEA 

The  sighs  we  mingle,  the  words  we  utter,  — 
Here,  oh  here,  let  us  make  our  bower  ! 

Love  is  not  perfect,  sweet,  that  like  a  dream 

Flows  on  without  a  forecast  or  a  pain  ; 
Some  burden  must  betide  to  make  it  strong, 
Some  toil,  to  make  its  briefest  bliss  seem  long,  - 
Ay,  longer  than  the  crossing  of  a  stream 

Mist-haunted,  lit  by  moons  that  surely  wane. 

Here,  for  a  round  of  moons  unbroken, 

A  spell  that  holds  shall  your  loss  requite  ; 

The  fleet,  sweet  moments  shall  pass  unreckoned 

And  all  to  our  constant  love  be  second, 

And  the  fragrant  lily  shall  be  our  token, 
That  folds  itself  on  the  waves  at  night. 

Yonder,  or  here,  and  whether  summer's  star 
Burn  overhead,  or  rains  of  autumn  fall ! 

Or  snows  of  winter  in  the  frozen  North  ? 
Love,  never  doubt  it ! 

Take  me  with  you  forth  ! 
And  oh,  for  get  not  in  that  land  afar, 

I  am  your  summer, — you,  my  life,  my  all! 


ASTRA  CAELI 

OVER  the  Carib  Sea  to-night 
The  stars  hang  low  and  near 
From  the  inexplicable  dome, — 
Nearer,  more  close  to  sight, 

356 


ASTRA    CAELI 

Than  from  the  skies  which  bound  the  stern  gray  sea 
That  girts  our  northern  home. 

Aftward  the  sister  Crosses  be, 

And  yonder  to  the  lee 

One  burning  cresset  glows  —  a  sphere 

With  light  beyond  a  new  moon's  rays, 

As  if  some  world  of  vanished  souls  shone  clear 

And  straight  before  our  gaze. 

Were  now  his  spirit  bright,— 
•Not  veiled,  nor  dumb,  — 
My  brother's,  with  the  smile  of  years  ago, 
Hither  to  glide  far  down  that  path  of  light, 
And  lift  a  hand,  and  say  aright, — 
"  Thou  too  shalt  know 
The  orb  from  which  I  come  !  " 

-  Were  thus  'twixt  star  and  wave 
His  voice  to  reach  me  on  the  night-wind's  breath, 
I  would  not  lightly  leave  thee,  Dear, 
Nor  them  who  with  thee  here 

Make  of  Life's  best  for  me  the  choice  and  sum, — 
But  yet  might  not  bemoan  me,  as  the  slave 
Condemned,  who  hears  the  call  to  death ; 
For  that  strange  heralding 

Even  of  itself  would  answer  all,  —  would  prove 
Life  but  a  voyage  such  as  this,  and  bring 
To  our  adventuring 
Its  gage  of  the  immortal  boon, 
Promise  of  after  joy  and  toil  and  love  ; 
And  I  would  yield  me,  as  the  bird  takes  wing 
Knowing  its  mate  must  follow  sure  and  soon. 

Ay,  —  but  the  trackless  spirit 

Comes  not,  nor  is  there  utterance  or  sign 

Of  all  we  would  divine 

357 


THE    CARIB    SEA 

Vouchsafed  from  the  unanswering  dome  : 

No  presence  east  or  west,— 

Only  the  stars  —  the  restless  wondering  sea 

Bearing  us  back,  from  foam-tipped  crest  to  crest, 

Toward  the  one  small  part  ourselves  inherit 

Of  this  lone  darkling  world  —  and  call  our  home. 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 


THE   SINGER 

O  LARK  !   sweet  lark  ! 
Where  learn  you  all  your  minstrelsy  ? 
What  realms  are  those  to  which  you  fly  ? 
While  robins  feed  their  young  from  dawn  till  dark, 

You  soar  on  high,— 

Forever  in  the  sky. 

O  child  !  dear  child  I 
Above  the  clouds  I  lift  my  wing 
To  hear  the  bells  of  Heaven  ring; 
Some  of  their  music,  though  my  flights  be  wild, 

To  Earth  I  bring, 

Then  let  me  soar  and  sing ! 


SUMMER    RAIN 

THROUGH  the  night  we  heard  it  fall 
Tenderly  and  musical ; 
And  this  morning  not  a  sigh 

Of  wind  uplifts  the  briony  leaves, 
But  the  ashen-tinted  sky 

Still  for  earthly  turmoil  grieves, 
While  the  melody  of  the  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  window-pane, 
On  the  lilac  and  the  rose, 
Round  us  all  its  pleasance  throws, 
Till  our  souls  are  yielded  wholly 
To  its  constant  melancholy, 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

And,  like  the  burden  of  its  song, 
Passionate  moments  glide  along. 

Pinks  and  hyacinths  perfume 
All  our  garden-fronted  room  ; 
Hither,  close  beside  me,  Love ! 
Do  not  whisper,  do  not  move. 
Here  we  two  will  softly  stay, 
Side  by  side,  the  livelong  day. 
Lean  thy  head  upon  my  breast : 
Ever  shall  it  give  thee  rest, 
Ever  would  I  gaze  to  meet 
Eyes  of  thine  up-glancing,  Sweet ! 
What  enchanted  dreams  are  ours  ! 
While  the  murmur  of  the  showers 
Dropping  on  the  tranquil  ground, 
Dropping  on  the  leaves  and  flowers, 
Wraps  our  yearning  souls  around 
In  the  drapery  of  its  sound. 


VOICE    OF   THE    WESTERN    WIND 

VOICE  of  the  western  wind  ! 

Thou  singest  from  afar, 
Rich  with  the  music  of  a  land 

Where  all  my  memories  are ; 
But  in  thy  song  I  only  hear 

The  echo  of  a  tone 
That  fell  divinely  on  my  ear 

In  days  forever  flown. 

Star  of  the  western  sky  ! 

Thou  beamest  from  afar, 
With  lustre  caught  from  eyes  I  knew, 

Whose  orbs  were  each  a  star ; 
362 


MONTAGU 

But,  oh,  those  orbs  —  too  wildly  bright 
No  more  eclipse  thine  own, 

And  never  shall  I  find  the  light 
Of  days  forever  flown  ! 


APOLLO 

VAINLY,  O  burning  Poets  ! 

Ye  wait  for  his  inspiration, 

Even  as  kings  of  old 

Stood  by  the  oracle-gates. 
Hasten  back,  he  will  say,  hasten  back 

To  your  provinces  far  away  I 

There,  at  my  own  good  time, 

Will  I  send  my  answer  to  you. 
Are  ye  not  kings  of  song  ? 

At  last  the  god  cometh  ! 

The  air  runs  over  with  splendor; 

The  fire  leaps  high  on  the  altar ; 
Melodious  thunders  shake  the  ground. 

Hark  to  the  Delphic  responses! 

Hark  !  it  is  the  god  ! 


MONTAGU 

QUEEN  {Catherine  of  Arragon 
In  gray  Kimbolton  dwelt, 

A  joyous  bride,  ere  bluff  King  Hal 
At  Bullen's  footstool  knelt. 

Still  in  her  haughty  Spanish  eyes 
Their  childhood's  lustre  shone, 

That  lit  with  love  two  royal  hearts. 
And  won  the  English  throne. 

363 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS 

From  gray  Kimbolton's  castle-gate 
She  rode,  each  summer's  day, 

And  blithely  led  the  greenwood  chase 
With  hawk  and  hound  away. 

And  ever  handsome  Montagu, 

Her  Master  of  the  Horse, 
To  guard  his  mistress  kept  her  pace 

O'er  heather,  turf,  and  gorse. 

O,  who  so  brave  as  Montagu 

To  leap  the  hedges  clear ! 
And  who  so  fleet  as  he  to  find 

The  coverts  of  the  deer ! 

And  who  so  wild  as  Montagu, 
To  seek  his  sovereign's  love  ! 

More  hopeless  than  a  child,  who  craves 
The  brightest  star  above. 

Day  after  day  her  presence  fed 

The  fever  at  his  heart ; 
Yet  loyally  the  young  knight  scorned 

To  play  a  traitor's  part. 

Only,  when  at  her  palfrey's  side 
He  bowed  him  by  command, 

Lightening  her  footfall  to  the  earth, 
He  pressed  her  dainty  hand ; 

A  tender  touch,  as  light  as  love, 

Soft  as  his  heart's  desire ; 
But  aye,  in  Katherine's  artless  blood, 

It  woke  no  answering  fire. 

King  Hal  to  gray  Kimbolton  came 
Erelong,  and  true  love's  sign, 
364 


SONG   AT   THE    BARRICADE 

Unused  in  colder  Arragon, 
She  prayed  him  to  divine  : 

"  Canst  tell  me,  Sire,"  she  said,  u  what  mean 

The  gentry  of  your  land, 
When  softly,  thus,  and  thus,  they  take 
And  press  a  lady's  hand  ? " 

"  Ha !  ha  I"  laughed  Hal,  "  but  tell  me,  Chick, 

Each  answering  in  course, 
Do  any  press  your  hand  ?"  "  O  yes, 
My  Master  of  the  Horse." 

Off  to  the  wars  her  gallant  went, 

And  pushed  the  foremost  dikes, 
And  gashed  his  fair  young  form  against 

A  score  of  Flemish  pikes. 

Heart's  blood  ebbed  fast ;  but  Montagu, 

Dipping  a  finger,  wove 
These  red  words  in  his  shield  :  "  Dear  Queen, 

I  perish  of  your  love  !  " 

Kimbolton,  after  many  a  year, 

Again  met  Katherine's  view : 
The  banished  wife,  with  half  a  sigh, 

Remembered  Montagu. 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG  AT  THE 
BARRICADE 

"  While  the  men  were  making  cartridges  and  the  women  lint ;  while  a  large 
frying-pan,  full  of  melted  pewter  and  lead,  destined  for  the  bullet-mould,  was 
smoking  over  a  burning  furnace  ;  while  the  videttes  were  watching  the  barricades 
with  arms  in  their  hands ;  while  Enjolras,  whom  nothing  could  distract,  was 
watching  the  videttes,  —  Combeferre,  Courfeyrac,  Jean  Prouvaire,  Feuilly  Bos- 
euet,  Joly,  Bahorel,  a  few  others  besides,  sought  each  other  and  got  together,  as  in 
the  most  peaceful  days  of  their  student-chats,  and  in  a  corner  of  this  wine-shop 

365 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS 

changed  into  a  casemate,  within  two  steps  of  the  redoubt  which  they  had  thrown 
up,  their  carbines,  primed  and  loaded,  resting  on  the  back  of  their  chairs,  these  gal 
lant  young  men,  so  near  their  last  hour,  began  to  sing  love-rhymes.  .  .  .  The 
hour,  the  place,  these  memories  of  youth  recalled,  the  few  stars  which  began  to 
shine  in  the  sky,  the  funereal  repose  of  these  deserted  streets,  the  imminence  of  the 
inexorable  event,  gave  a  pathetic  charm  to  these  rhymes,  murmured  in  a  low  tone 
jn  the  twilight  by  Jean  Prouvaire,  who,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  sweet  poet."  Les 
Miserable*:  Satnt  Denis,  Book  XII,  chapter  vi. 

Do  you  remember  our  charming  times, 
When  we  were  both  so  young,  and  knew 

Of  naught  on  earth  that  was  worth  a  wish 
But  love,  and  to  look  our  best,  —  we  two ; 

When  all  your  birthdays,  added  to  mine, 

A  total  of  forty  would  not  bring, 
And  when,  in  our  humble  and  cosey  roost, 

All,  even  the  Winter,  to  us  was  Spring  ? 

Rare  days  !  then  prudish  Manuel  stalked, 

Paris  a  godly  life  essayed, 
Foy  thundered,  and  yes,  't  was  then  a  pin 

In  your  bodice  pricked  my  hand  that  abrayed  ! 

Every  one  ogled  you.    At  Prado's, 

Where  you  and  your  briefless  barrister  dined, 

You  were  so  pretty,  the  roses,  I  thought, 
Turned  to  look  at  you  from  behind. 

They  seemed  to  whisper  :  "  How  handsome  she  is  ! 

What  wavy  tresses  !   what  sweet  perfume  ! 
Under  her  mantle  she  hides  her  wings ; 

Her  flower  of  a  bonnet  is  just  in  bloom  !  " 

I  roamed  with  you,  pressing  your  dainty  arm, 
And  the  passers  thought  that  Love,  in  play, 

Had  mated,  in  unison  so  sweet, 

The  gallant  April  with  gentle  May. 
366 


SONG   AT   THE    BARRICADE 

We  lived  so  merrily,  all  by  ourselves, 

On  love,  —  that  choice  forbidden  fruit,— 

And  never  a  word  my  mouth  could  speak 
But  your  heart  already  had  followed  suit. 

The  Sorbonne  was  that  bucolic  place 

Where  night  till  day  my  passion  throve  : 

'T  is  thus  that  an  ardent  youngster  makes 
The  Latin  Quarter  a  Land  of  Love. 

0  Place  Maubert !    O  Place  Dauphine  ! 
Sky-parlor  reaching  heavenward  far, 

In  whose  depths,  when  you  drew  your  stocking  on, 
I  saw,  methought,  a  shining  star. 

Hard-learned  Plato  I  've  long  forgot: 
Neither  Malebranche  nor  Lamennais 

Taught  me  such  faith  in  Providence 
As  the  flower  which  in  your  bosom  lay. 

You  were  my  servant  and  I  your  slave : 

O  golden  attic  !    O  joy,  at  morn, 
To  lace  you  —  watch  you  dressing,  and  viewing 

Your  girlish  face  in  that  glass  forlorn  ! 

Ah  !  who  indeed  could  ever  forget 

The  sky  and  dawn  commingling  still ; 

That  ribbony,  flowery,  gauzy  glory, 

And  Love's  sweet  nonsense  talked  at  will  ? 

Our  garden  a  pot  of  tulips  was  ; 

Your  petticoat  curtained  the  window-pane ; 

1  took  for  myself  the  earthen  bowl, 

And  passed  you  a  cup  of  porcelain. 

What  huge  disasters  to  make  us  fun  ! 
Your  mufF  afire  ;  your  tippet  lost ; 

367 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS 

And  that  cherished  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  sold, 
One  hungry  evening,  at  half  its  cost. 

I  was  a  beggar  and  you  were  kind : 

A  kiss  from  your  fair  round  arms  I  'd  steal, 

While  the  folio-Dante  we  gayly  spread 

With  a  hundred  chestnuts,  our  frugal  meal. 

And  oh  !  when  first  my  favored  mouth 
A  kiss  to  your  burning  lips  had  given, 

You  were  dishevelled  and  all  aglow ; 

I,  pale  with  rapture,  believed  in  Heaven. 

Do  you  remember  our  countless  joys, 
Those  neckerchiefs  rumpled  every  day  ? 

Alas,  what  sighs  from  our  boding  hearts 
The  infinite  skies  have  borne  away  ' 


TOUJOURS   AMOUR 

PRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair ; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"  I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
'T  is  so  long  I  can't  remember  : 

Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I  !  " 
368 


VIOLET    EYES 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 
"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die  ; 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I !  " 

THE  TRYST 

SLEEPING,  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast  mine, 
In  some  ambrosial  lovers'  shrine. 
My  lips  against  thy  lips  were  pressed, 
And  all  our  passion  was  confessed  ; 
So  near  and  dear  my  darling  seemed, 
I  knew  not  that  I  only  dreamed. 

Waking,  this  mid  and  moonlit  night, 
I  clasp  thee  close  by  lover's  right. 
Thou  fearest  not  my  warm  embrace, 
And  yet,  so  like  the  dream  thy  face 
And  kisses,  I  but  half  partake 
The  joy,  and  know  not  if  I  wake. 

VIOLET  EYES 

ONE  can  never  quite  forget 
Eyes  like  yours,  May  Margaret, 
369 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

Eyes  of  dewy  violet ! 
Nothing  like  them,  Margaret, 
Save  the  blossoms  newly  born 
Of  the  May  and  of  the  Morn. 

Oft  my  memory  wanders  back 

To  those  burning  eyes  and  black, 

Whose  heat-lightnings  once  could  move 

Me  to  passion,  not  to  love ; 

Longer  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

Linger  those  disguised  arts, 

Which,  betimes,  a  hazel  pair 

Used  upon  me  unaware ; 

And  the  wise  and  tender  gray  — 

Eyes  wherewith  a  saint  might  pray  — 

Speak  of  pledges  that  endure 

And  of  faith  and  vigils  pure ; 

But  for  him  who  fain  would  know 

All  the  fire  the  first  can  show, 

All  the  art,  or  friendship  fast, 

Of  the  second  and  the  last, — 

And  would  gain  a  subtler  worth, 

Part  of  Heaven,  part  of  earth,  — 

He  these  mingled  rays  can  find 

In  but  one  immortal  kind  : 

In  those  eyes  -of  violet, 

In  your  eyes,  May  Margaret ! 


AT  TWILIGHT 

THE  sunset  darkens  in  the  west, 
The  sea-gulls,  haunt  the  bay, 

And  far  and  high  the  swallows  fly 
To  watch  the  dying  day. 

Now  where  is  she  that  once  with  me 

The  rippling  waves  would  list  ? 

370 


AUTUMN    SONG 

And  O  for  the  song  I  loved  so  long, 
And  the  darling  lips  I  kist ! 

Yon  twinkling  sail  may  whiter  gleam 

Than  falcon's  snowy  wing, 
Her  lances  far  the  evening-star 

Beyond  the  waves  may  fling ; 
Float  on,  ah  float,  enchanted  boat, 

Bear  true  hearts  o'er  the  main, 
But  I  shall  guide  thy  helm  no  more, 

Nor  whisper  love  again  ! 

AUTUMN   SONG 

No  clouds  are  in  the  morning  sky, 

The  vapors  hug  the  stream,  — 
Who  says  that  life  and  love  can  die 

In  all  this  northern  gleam  ? 
At  every  turn  the  maples  burn, 

The  quail  is  whistling  free, 
The  partridge  whirs,  and  the  frosted  burs 

Are  dropping  for  you  and  me. 
Ho  !  billy  ho  I  heigh  O  ! 

Hilly  ho  ! 
In  the  clear  October  morning. 

Along  our  path  the  woods  are  bold, 

And  glow  with  ripe  desire ; 
The  yellow  chestnut  showers  its  gold, 

The  sumachs  spread  their  fire ; 
The  breezes  feel  as  crisp  as  steel, 

The  buckwheat  tops  are  red  : 
Then  down  the  lane,  love,  scurry  again, 

And  over  the  stubble  tread  ! 
Ho!  hilly  ho!  heigh  O! 

Hilly  ho  / 
In  the  clear  October  morning. 

371 


SONGS   AND   BALLADS 


WHAT  THE  WINDS  BRING 

WHICH  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  cold  ? 

The  North-Wind,  Freddy,  and  all  the  snow ; 
And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold 

When  the  North  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  South- Wind,  Katy;  and  corn  will  grow, 
And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat, 

When  the  South  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? 

The  East- Wind,  Arty;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 

When  the  East  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? 

The  West-Wind,  Bessy ;  and  soft  and  low 
The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 

When  the  West  begins  to  blow. 


THE  SONGSTER 

A  MIDSUMMER  CAROL 


WITHIN  our  summer  hermitage 

I  have  an  aviary,  — 
'T  is  but  a  little,  rustic  cage, 
That  holds  a  golden-winged  Canary, 
A  bird  with  no  companion  of  his  kind. 
But  when  the  warm  south-wind 
Blows,  from  rathe  meadows,  over 
The  honey-scented  clover, 
372 


THE   SONGSTER 

I  hang  him  in  the  porch,  that  he  may  hear 
The  voices  of  the  bobolink  and  thrush, 

The  robin's  joyous  gush, 
The  bluebird's  warble,  and  the  tunes  of  all 
Glad  matin  songsters  in  the  fields  anear. 

Then,  as  the  blithe  responses  vary, 

And  rise  anew  and  fall, 
In  every  hush 

He  answers  them  again, 

With  his  own  wild,  reliant  strain, 
As  if  he  breathed  the  air  of  sweet  Canary. 


ii 

Bird,  bird  of  the  golden  wing, 
Thou  lithe,  melodious  thing  ! 

Where  hast  thy  music  found  ? 
What  fantasies  of  vale  and  vine, 
Of  glades  where  orchids  intertwine, 
Of  palm-trees,  garlanded  and  crowned, 
And  forests  flooded  deep  with  sound,— 
What  high  imagining 
Hath  made  this  carol  thine  ? 
By  what  instinct  art  thou  bound 
To  all  rare  harmonies  that  be 
In  those  green  islands  of  the  sea, 
Where  thy  radiant,  wildwood  kin 
Their  madrigals  at  morn  begin, 
Above  the  rainbow  and  the  roar 
Of  the  long  billow  from  the  Afric  shore  ? 

Asking  other  guerdon 
None,  than  Heaven's  light, 

Holding  thy  crested  head  aright, 
Thy  melody's  sweet  burden 
Thou  dost  proudly  utter, 

With  many  an  ecstatic  flutter 
373 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

And  ruffle  of  thy  tawny  throat 

For  each  delicious  note. 
—  Art  thou  a  waif  from  Paradise, 

In  some  fine  moment  wrought 
By  an  artist  of  the  skies, 

Thou  winged,  cherubic  Thought  ? 

Bird  of  the  amber  beak, 

Bird  of  the  golden  wing  ! 
Thy  dower  is  thy  carolling ; 

Thou  hast  not  far  to  seek 

Thy  bread,  nor  needest  wine 
To  make  thine  utterance  divine; 
Thou  art  canopied  and  clothed 

And  unto  Song  betrothed  ! 
In  thy  lone  aerial  cage 
Thou  hast  thine  ancient  heritage  ; 
There  is  no  task-work  on  thee  laid 
But  to  rehearse  the  ditties  thou  hast  made; 

Thou  hast  a  lordly  store, 
And,  though  thou  scatterest  them  free, 

Art  richer  than  before, 

Holding  in  fee 
The  glad  domain  of  minstrelsy. 


in 

Brave  songster,  bold  Canary  ! 
Thou  art  not  of  thy  listeners  wary, 
Art  not  timorous,  nor  chary 

Of  quaver,  trill,  and  tone, 
Each  perfect  and  thine  own ; 
But  renewest,  shrill  or  soft, 
Thy  greeting  to  the  upper  skies, 
Chanting  thy  latest  song  aloft 
With  no  tremor  or  disguise. 
Thine  is  a  music  that  defies 
374 


THE   SONGSTER 

The  envious  rival  near ; 
Thou  hast  no  fear 
Of  the  day's  vogue,  the  scornful  critic's  sneer. 

Would,  O  wisest  bard,  that  now 

I  could  cheerly  sing  as  thou  ! 
Would  I  might  chant  the  thoughts  which  on  me  throng 

For  the  very  joy  of  song  ! 

Here,  on  the  written  page, 

I  falter,  yearning  to  impart 
The  vague  and  wandering  murmur  of  my  heart, 

Haply  a  little  to  assuage 

This  human  restlessness  and  pain, 
And  half  forget  my  chain  : 

Thou,  unconscious  of  thy  cage, 

Showerest  music  everywhere ; 

Thou  hast  no  care 
But  to  pour  out  the  largesse  thou  hast  won 

From  the  south-wind  and  the  sun ; 

There  are  no  prison-bars 
Betwixt  thy  tricksy  spirit  and  the  stars. 

When  from  its  delicate  clay 
Thy  little  life  shall  pass  away, 

Thou  wilt  not  meanly  die, 
Nor  voiceless  yield  to  silence  and  decay ; 
But  triumph  still  in  art 
And  act  thy  minstrel-part, 
Lifting  a  last,  long  paean 
To  the  unventured  empyrean. 

—  So  bid' the  world  go  by, 
And  they  who  list  to  thee  aright, 
Seeing  thee  fold  thy  wings  and  fall,  shall  say : 
"  The  Songster  perished  of  his  own  delight ! " 


375 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

STANZAS   FOR    MUSIC 

(FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  DRAMA) 

THOU  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word ; 

Close,  close  in  my  arms  thou  art  clinging; 

Alone  for  my  ear  thou  art  singing 
A  song  which  no  stranger  hath  heard : 
But  afar  from  me  yet,  like  a  bird, 
Thy  soul,  in  some  region  unstirred, 

On  its  mystical  circuit  is  winging. 

Thou  art  mine,  I  have  made  thee  mine  own ; 
Henceforth  we  are  mingled  forever: 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain,  I  endeavor  — 

Though  round  thee  my  garlands  are  thrown, 

And  thou  yieldest  thy  lips  and  thy  zone  — 

To  master  the  spell  that  alone 
My  hold  on  thy  being  can  sever. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  come  unto  me  ! 

But  thy  soul,  when  I  strive  to  be  near  it  — 

The  innermost  fold  of  thy  spirit  — 
Is  as  far  from  my  grasp,  is  as  free, 
As  the  stars  from  the  mountain-tops  be, 
As  the  pearl,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

From  the  portionless  king  that  would  wear  it. 

THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE    BIRDS 

WHITHER  away,  Robin, 

Whither  away  ? 
Is  it  through  envy  of  the  maple-leaf, 

Whose  blushes  mock  the  crimson  of  thy  breast, 

Thou  wilt  not  stay  ? 
The  summer  days  were  long,  yet  all  too  brief 

376 


SONG   FROM   A   DRAMA 

The  happy  season  thou  hast  been  our  guest : 
Whither  away  ? 

Whither  away,  Bluebird, 

Whither  away  ? 
The  blast  is  chill,  yet  in  the  upper  sky 

Thou  still  canst  find  the  color  of  thy  wing, 

The  hue  of  May. 

Warbler,  why  speed  thy  southern  flight  ?  ah,  why, 
Thou  too,  whose  song  first  told  us  of  the  Spring  ? 
Whither  away  ? 

Whither  away,  Swallow, 

Whither  away  ? 
Canst  thou  no  longer  tarry  in  the  North, 

Here,  where  our  roof  so  well  hath  screened  thy  nest  ? 

Not  one  short  day  ? 

Wilt  thou  —  as  if  thou  human  wert  —  go  forth 
And  wanton  far  from  them  who  love  thee  best  ? 
Whither  away  ? 


SONG    FROM    A   DRAMA 

I  KNOW  not  if  moonlight  or  starlight 

Be  soft  on  the  land  and  the  sea,— 
I  catch  but  the  near  light,  the  far  light, 

Of  eyes  that  are  burning  for  me; 
The  scent  of  the  night,  of  the  roses, 

May  burden  the  air  for  thee,  Sweet, - 
'T  is  only  the  breath  of  thy  sighing 

I  know,  as  I  lie  at  thy  feet. 

The  winds  may  be  sobbing  or  singing, 
Their  touch  may  be  fervent  or  cold, 

The  night-bells  may  toll  or  be  ringing,  - 
I  care  not,  while  thee  I  enfold ! 
377 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

The  feast  may  go  on,  and  the  music 

Be  scattered  in  ecstasy  round, — 
Thy  whisper,  "  I  love  thee  !   I  love  thee  !  " 

Hath  flooded  my  soul  with  its  sound. 

I  think  not  of  time  that  is  flying, 

How  short  is  the  hour  I  have  won, 
How  near  is  this  living  to  dying, 

How  the  shadow  still  follows  the  sun ; 
There  is  naught  upon  earth,  no  desire, 

Worth  a  thought,  though  't  were  had  by  a  sign 
I  love  thee  !   I  love  thee  !   bring  nigher 

Thy  spirit,  thy  kisses,  to  mine. 

THE   SUN-DIAL 

"  Horas  non  numeronisi  Serenas" 

ONLY  the  sunny  hours 

Are  numbered  here, — 
No  winter-time  that  lowers, 

No  twilight  drear. 
But  from  a  golden  sky 

When  sunbeams  fall, 
Though  the  bright  moments  fly, — 

They  're  counted  all. 

My  heart  its  transient  woe 

Remembers  not ! 
The  ills  of  long  ago 

Are  half  forgot ; 
But  Childhood's  round  of  bliss, 

Youth's  tender  thrill, 
Hope's  whisper,  Love's  first  kiss,  — 

They  haunt  me  still ! 

Sorrows  are  everywhere, 
Joys  —  all  too  few  ! 

378 


MADRIGAL 

Have  we  not  had  our  share 

Of  pleasure  too  ? 
No  Past  the  glad  heart  cowers, 

No  memories  dark ; 
Only  the  sunny  hours 

The  dial  mark. 


MADRIGAL 

DORUS  TO  LYCORIS,  WHO    REPROVED    HIM  FOR  INCONSTANCY 

WHY  should  I  constant  be  ? 
The  bird  in  yonder  tree, 

This  leafy  summer, 
Hath  not  his  last  year's  mate, 
Nor  dreads  to  venture  fate 

With  a  new-comer. 

Why  should  I  fear  to  sip 
The  sweets  of  each  red  lip  ? 

In  every  bower 
The  roving  bee  may  taste 
(Lest  aught  should  run  to  waste) 

Each  fresh-blown  flower. 

The  trickling  rain  doth  fall 
Upon  us  one  and  all ; 

The  south-wind  kisses 
The  saucy  milkmaid's  cheek, 
The  nun's,  demure  and  meek, 

Nor  any  misses. 

Then  ask  no  more  of  me 
That  I  should  constant  be 

Nor  eke  desire  it ; 
Take  not  such  idle  pains 
379 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

To  hold  our  love  in  chains, 
Nor  coax,  nor  hire  it. 

Be  all  things  in  thyself,— 
A  sprite,  a  tricksy  elf, 

Forever  changing, 
So  that  thy  latest  mood 
May  ever  bring  new  food 

To  Fancy  ranging. 

Forget  what  thou  wast  first, 
And  as  I  loved  thee  erst 

In  soul  and  feature, 
I  '11  love  thee  out  of  mind 
When  each  new  morn  shall  find 

Thee  a  new  creature. 


NOCTURNE 

THE  silent  world  is  sleeping, 

And  spirits  hover  nigh, 
With  downward  pinions  keeping 

Our  love  from  mortal  eye, 
Nor  any  ear  of  Earth  can  hear 

The  heart-beat  and  the  sigh. 

Now  no  more  the  twilight  bird 
Showers  his  triple  notes  around ; 

In  the  dewy  paths  is  heard 
No  rude  footfall's  sound. 

In  the  stillness  I  await 
Thy  coming  late, 

In  the  dusk  would  lay  my  heart 
Close  to  thine  own,  and  say  how  dear  thou  art ! 

O  life  !   O  rarest  hour  ! 

When  the  dark  world  onward  rolls, 
380 


GUESTS   AT   YULE 

And  the  fiery  planets  drift, 

Then  from  our  commingled  souls 

Clouds  of  passion  and  of  power, 
Flames  of  incense,  lift  ! 

Come,  for  the  world  is  turning 

To  meet  the  morning  star ! 
Answer  my  spirit's  yearning 

And  seek  the  arms  that  call  thee  from  afar: 
Let  them  close — ah,  let  them  close 
Around  thee  now,  and  lure  thee  to  repose. 
1878. 

GUESTS  AT  YULE 

Noel!  Noel! 
Thus  sounds  each  Christmas  bell 

Across  the  winter  snow. 
But  what  are  the  little  footprints  all 
That  mark  the  path  from  the  church-yard  wall  ? 
They  are  those  of  the  children  waked  to-night 
From  sleep  by  the  Christmas  bells  and  light : 
Ring  sweetly,  chimes  !    Soft,  soft,  my  rhymes  ! 
Their  beds  are  under  the  snow. 

Noel!  Noel! 
Carols  each  Christmas  bell. 

What  are  the  wraiths  of  mist 
That  gather  anear  the  window-pane 
Where  the  winter  frost  all  day  has  lain  ? 
They  are  soulless  elves,  who  fain  would  peer 
Within,  and  laugh  at  our  Christmas  cheer : 

Ring  fleetly,  chimes  !    Swift,  swift,  my  rhymes  ! 
They  are  made  of  the  mocking  mist. 

Noel!  Noel! 
Cease,  cease,  each  Christmas  bell ! 

381 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

Under  the  holly  bough, 

Where  the  happy  children  throng  and  shout, 
What  shadow  seems  to  flit  about  ? 
Is  it  the  mother,  then,  who  died 
Ere  the  greens  were  sere  last  Christmas-tide  ? 
Hush,  falling  chimes  !   Cease,  cease,  my  rhymes! 

The  guests  are  gathered  now. 
1882. 

THE  PILGRIMS 

O  PILGRIM  from  the  Indies  ! 

O  guest  from  out  the  North, 
Where  low  and  dun  the  midnight  sun 

Upon  the  wave  rides  forth  ! 
What  country  is  most  dear  of  all 

Beneath  the  heaven  blue  ? 
The  dearest  land  is  ones  own  land, 

Go  search  the  wide  world  through. 

O  know  you  not  that  henceforth 

All  countries  are  as  one  ? 
Ere  summer  fail,  the  world  shall  hail 

Its  golden  year  begun. 
But  still  each  pilgrim  answering  names 

The  clime  that  gave  him  birth  : 
One's  own  land  is  the  dearest  land 

Of  all  fair  lands  on  earth. 

Children's  Song, 
Columbian  Exposition,  1893 

FALSTAFF'S   SONG 

WHERE  's  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday  ? 

What  place  on  earth  hath  he  ? 
A  tailor's  yard  beneath,  I  wot, 

Where  worms  approaching  be ; 

382 


PROVENCAL    LOVERS 

For  the  wight  that  died  o'  Wednesday, 

Just  laid  the  light  below, 
Is  dead  as  the  varlet  turned  to  clay 

A  score  of  years  ago. 

Where  's  he  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day  ? 

Good  Lord,  I  'd  not  be  he  ! 
The  best  of  days  is  foul  enough 

From  this  world's  fare  to  flee ; 
And  the  saint  that  died  o'  Sabba'  day, 

With  his  grave  turf  yet  to  grow, 
Is  dead  as  the  sinner  brought  to  pray 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

Where  's  he  that  died  o'  yesterday  ? 

What  better  chance  hath  he 
To  clink  the  can  and  toss  the  pot 

When  this  night's  junkets  be  ? 
For  the  lad  that  died  o'  yesterday 

Is  just  as  dead  —  ho  !   ho  !  — 
As  the  whoreson  knave  men  laid  away 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

PROVENCAL   LOVERS 

AUCASSIN    AND    NICOLETTE 

WITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair, — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "  My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so  ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle"  ; — . 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  Now,  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie? 

383 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS 

To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care  ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met ; 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring";  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine : 
I  like  them  not  —  a  starveling  set ! 
Who  'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine  ? 
The  other  road  't  were  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle  !  "  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

u  To  purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree  : 
We  '11  join  that  gallant  company,"  — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides, — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray  " 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

u  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free  ! 
Pardie !  I  Jd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
384 


THE   WEDDING-DAY 

If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie ! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I  'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below,"- 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 
1878. 


THE  WEDDING-DAY 


SWEETHEART,  name  the  day  for  me 
When  we  two  shall  wedded  be. 
Make  it  ere  another  moon, 
While  the  meadows  are  in  tune, 
And  the  trees  are  blossoming, 
And  the  robins  mate  and  sing. 
Whisper,  love,  and  name  a  day 
In  this  merry  month  of  May. 

No,  no,  no, 

You  shall  not  escape  me  so  ! 
Love  will  not  forever  wait ; 
Roses  fade  when  gathered  late. 

ii 

Fie,  for  shame,  Sir  Malcontent ! 
How  can  time  be  better  spent 
Than  in  wooing  ?  I  would  wed 
When  the  clover  blossoms  red, 
When  the  air  is  full  of  bliss. 
And  the  sunshine  like  a  kiss. 
If  you  're  good  I  '11  grant  a  boon  : 
You  shall  have  me,  sir,  in  June. 

Nay,  nay,  nay, 

Girls  for  once  should  have  their  way ! 
385 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

If  you  love  me,  wait  till  June  : 
Rosebuds  wither,  picked  too  soon. 

1878. 

THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

WHEN  Christmas-Eve  is  ended, 

Just  at  the  noon  of  night, 
Rare  things  are  seen  by  mortal  een 

That  have  the  second  sight. 
In  St.  Mark's  church-yard  then 

They  see  the  shape  arise 
Of  him  who  ruled  Nieuw  Amsterdam 

And  here  in  slumber  lies. 

His  face,  beneath  the  close  black  cap, 

Has  a  martial  look  and  grim; 
On  either  side  his  locks  fall  wide 

To  the  broad  collar's  rim  ; 
His  sleeves  are  slashed ;  the  velvet  coat 

Is  fashioned  Hollandese 
Above  his  fustian  breeches,  trimmed 

With  scarf-knots  at  the  knees. 

His  leg  of  flesh  is  hosed  in  silk  ; 

His  wooden  leg  is  bound, 
As  well  befits  a  conqueror's, 

With  silver  bands  around. 
He  reads  the  lines  that  mark 

His  tablet  on  the  wall, 
Where  boldly  PETRUS  STUYVESANT 

Stands  out  beyond  them  all. 

"  'T  is  well  !  "  he  says,  and  sternly  smiles, 

u  They  hold  our  memory  dear  ; 
Nor  rust  nor  moss  hath  crept  across ; 
JT  will  last  this  many  a  year." 
386 


THE    DUTCH    PATROL 

Then  down  the  path  he  strides, 

And  through  the  iron  gate, 
Where  the  sage  Nine  Men,  his  councillors, 

Their  Governor  await. 

Here  are  Van  der  Donck  and  Van  Cortlandt, 

A  triplet  more  of  Vans, 
And  Hendrick  Kip  of  the  haughty  lip, 

And  Govert  Loockermans, 
Jan  Jansen  Dam,  and  Jansen, 

Of  whom  our  annals  tell, — 
All  risen  this  night  their  lord  to  greet 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 

Nine  lusty  forms  in  linsey  coats, 

Puffed  sleeves  and  ample  hose  ! 
Each  burgher  smokes  a  Flemish  pipe 

To  warm  his  ancient  nose  ; 
The  smoke-wreaths  rise  like  mist, 

The  smokers  all  are  mute, 
Yet  all,  with  pipes  thrice  waving  slow, 

Brave  Stuyvesant  salute. 

Then  into  ranks  they  fall, 

And  step  out  three  by  three, 
And  he  of  the  wooden  leg  and  staff 

In  front  walks  solemnly. 
Along  their  wonted  course 

The  phantom  troop  patrol, 
To  see  how  fares  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

And  what  the  years  unroll. 

Street  after  street  and  mile  on  mile, 

From  river  bound  to  bound, 
From  old  St.  Mark's  to  Whitehall  Point, 

They  foot  the  limits  round ; 
From  Maiden  Lane  to  Corlaer's  Hook 

The  Dutchmen's  pijpen  glow, 

387 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

But  never  a  word  from  their  lips  is  heard, 
And  none  their  passing  know. 

Ere  the  first  streak  of  dawn 

St.  Mark's  again  they  near, 
And  by  a  vault  the  Nine  Men  halt, 

Their  Governor's  voice  to  hear. 
"  Mynheeren,"  he  says,  "  ye  see 

Each  year  our  borders  spread  ! 
So,  one  by  one,  the  landmarks  gone, 

And  marvels  come  instead ! 

"  Not  even  a  windmill  left, 

Nor  a  garden-plot  we  knew, 
And  but  a  paling  marks  the  spot 

Where  erst  my  pear-tree  grew. 
Our  walks  are  wearier  still, — 

Perchance  and  it  were  best, 
So  little  of  worth  is  left  on  earth, 

To  break  no  more  our  rest  ?  " 

Thus  speaks  old  Petrus  doubtfully 

And  shakes  his  valiant  head, 
When  —  on  the  roofs  a  sound  of  hoofs, 

A  rattling,  pattering  tread  ! 
The  bells  of  reindeer  tinkle, 

The  Dutchmen  plainly  spy 
St.  Nicholas,  who  drives  his  team 

Across  the  roof-tops  nigh. 

"  Beshrew  me  for  a  craven  !  " 

Cries  Petrus  —  "  All  goes  well ! 
Our  patron  saint  still  makes  his  round 

At  sound  of  the  Christmas  bell. 
So  long  as  staunch  St.  Nicholas 
Shall  guard  these  houses  tall, 
388 


AARON    BURR'S   WOOING 

There  shall  come  no  harm  from  hostile  arm 
No  evil  chance  befall  I 

u  The  yongens  and  the  meisjes 

Shall  have  their  hosen  filled ; 
The  butcher  and  the  baker, 

And  every  honest  guild, 
Shall  merrily  thrive  and  flourish ; 

Good-night,  and  be  of  cheer ; 
We  may  safely  lay  us  down  again 

To  sleep  another  year  !  " 

Once  more  the  pipes  are  waved, 

Stout  Petrus  gives  the  sign, 
The  misty  smoke  enfolds  them  round, — 

Him  and  his  burghers  nine. 
All,  when  the  cloud  has  lifted, 

Have  vanished  quite  away, 
And  the  crowing  cock  and  steeple  clock 

Proclaim  't  is  Christmas-Day. 
1882. 


AARON    BURR'S   WOOING 

FROM  the  commandant's  quarters  on  Westchester  height 
The  blue  hills  of  Ramapo  lie  in  full  sight; 
On  their  slope  gleam  the  gables  that  shield  his  heart's  queen, 
But  the  redcoats  are  wary  —  the  Hudson's  between. 
Through  the   camp    runs  a  jest:  "There's  no  moon  — 

't  will  be  dark  ; 

'T  is  odds  little  Aaron  will  go  on  a  spark !  " 
And  the  toast  of  the  troopers  is  :  u  Pickets,  lie  low, 
And  good  luck  to  the  colonel  and  Widow  Prevost !  " 

Eight  miles  to  the  river  he  gallops  his  steed, 

ILays  him  bound  in  the  barge,  bids  his  escort  make  speed, 

389 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS 

Loose  their  swords,  sit  athwart,  through  the  fleet  reach  yon 

shore, 

Not  a  word  —  not  a  plash  of  the  thick-muffled  oar ! 
Once  across,  once  again  in  the  seat  and  away  — 
Five  leagues  are  soon  over  when  love  has  the  say ; 
And  "  Old  Put "  and  his  rider  a  bridle-path  know 
To  the  Hermitage  manor  of  Madame  Prevost. 

Lightly  done  !  but  he  halts  in  the  grove's  deepest  glade, 
Ties  his  horse  to  a  birch,  trims  his  cue,  slings  his  blade, 
Wipes  the  dust  and  the  dew  from  his  smooth,  handsome  face, 
With  the  'kerchief  she  broidered  and  bordered  in  lace ; 
Then  slips  through  the  box-rows  and  taps  at  the  hall, 
Sees  the  glint  of  a  waxlight,  a  hand  white  and  small, 
And  the  door  is  unbarred  by  herself  all  aglow  — 
Half  in  smiles,  half  in  tears — Theodosia  Prevost. 

Alack  for  the  soldier  that 's  buried  and  gone  ! 
What 's  a  volley  above  him,  a  wreath  on  his  stone, 
Compared  with  sweet  life  and  a  wife  for  one's  view 
Like  this  dame,  ripe  and  warm  in  her  India  fichu  ? 
She  chides  her  bold  lover,  yet  holds  him  more  dear, 
For  the  daring  that  brings  him  a  night-rider  here ; 
British  gallants  by  day  through  her  doors  come  and  go, 
But  a  Yankee 's  the  winner  of  Theo  Prevost. 

Where  's  the  widow  or  maid  with  a  mouth  to  be  kist, 
When  Burr  comes  a-wooing,  that  long  would  resist  ? 
Lights  and  wine  on  the  beaufet,  the  shutters  all  fast, 
And  u  Old  Put  "  stamps  in  vain  till  an  hour  has  flown  past  — 
But  an  hour,  for  eight  leagues  must  be  covered  ere  day ; 
Laughs  Aaron,  u  Let  Washington  frown  as  he  may, 
When  he  hears  of  me  next,  in  a  raid  on  the  foe, 
He  '11  forgive  this  night's  tryst  with  the  Widow  Prevost !  " 
1886. 


390 


CENTURIA 

CENTURIA 

(TWELFTH  NIGHT  CHORUS,  CENTURY  ASSOCIATION) 

THE  burthen  is  all  that  there  is  of  this  song, 

Centuria  ! 

Let  it  sound  through  the  halls  where  our  memories  throng- 
Where  thy  dead  and  thy  living  commingled  belong ; 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 

Let  it  sound  till  the  wise  and  the  gentle  and  brave, 

Centuria, 

Come  back  from  the  vale  where  their  soft  grasses  wave, 
And  list  to  our  revel  and  join  in  the  stave ; 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 

For  the  pen,  lute  and  gown,  and  the  iris-hued  sky, 

Centuria, 

Were  theirs,  and  are  ours  while  the  nights  still  go  by 
With  song,  wit  and  wassail,  and  true  hearts  anigh. 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 

Then  love  as  they  loved  when  thine  eldest  was  young, 

Centuria ! 

O  the  comrades  that  gossiped  and  painted  and  sung, 
O  the  smoke-cloud  that  lingers  their  places  among ! 
Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria ! 

And  sing  as  they  '11  sing  in  thy  fair  years  untold, 

Centuria, 

Strong  hearts  that  shall  follow,  as  tender  and  bold ; 
We  may  fade,  we  shall  pass,  but  thou  growest  not  old  j 

Centuria,  Centuria,  vivat  Centuria  ! 
1892. 


VARIOUS   POEMS 


THE   DESCENT  INTO  THE   CRATER 

POPOCATAPETL 
(From  "The  Sulphur  Gatherers,"  an  unpublished  early  poem.) 

THEN,  shuddering  an  instant,  with  the  fear 
That  chills  the  bravest  glancing  unawares 
From  dreadful  heights,  Montana  in  his  crate 
Clung  fast,  and  crouched,  and  bade  them  lower  away; 
And  the  frail  car,  descending  slowly,  swung 
Far  from  the  cliff,  —  as  the  aerial  nest, 
Which  the  red  oriole  has  shrewdly  built, 
Swings  pendulous  from  the  extremest  bough 
Of  some  huge  elm,  sweeping  in  dizzy  curves 
This  way  and  that,  and  eddying  thundergusts 
Whirl  it  with  snap  and  twist,  but  still  it  clings 
Through  all  the  tempest,  even  so  the  knight, 
Sheer  in  mid  air,  swung  over  all  that  depth, 
Whirled  with  the  cordage  till  his  brain  grew  sick, 
But  clinging  still ;  and  still  they  lowered  him 
By  shadowy  lines  of  chasm,  cave,  and  crag  ; 
And  cave  and  crag  like  shadows  glided  up, 
Blurred  as  in  dismal  visions  of  the  night, 
When  down  some  unknown  pit  the  dreamer  falls 
Helpless  and  hopeless.   Down,  still  down.  Above, 
His  comrades'  voices  were  no  longer  heard. 
Down,  like  the  birdsmen  of  the  isle,  who  swing, 
Hunting  the  eider's  plumage,  from  the  holms 
Of  sea-girt  Orkney,  or  the  perilous  bluffs 
Of  Stromoe,  black  above  the  roaring  main  ; 
Down  by  the  rended  vents  of  ancient  fires, 
And  where  the  genii  of  the  mountain  hide, 
395 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Darkling  with  all  the  secrets  of  the  gnomes. 
The  lambent,  ambient  lava  far  below 
Grew  hot,  and  broadened  like  the  mouth  of  hell 
Yawning  for  prey ;  and  poisonous,  floating  fumes 
Steamed  over  him,  till,  at  the  last,  a  puff, 
Noisome  and  dense,  smothered  his  breath  so  long 
The  knight  was  stifled ;  round  his  heart  he  felt 
The  weight  of  death,  and  dropt  within  his  crate 
Fainting ;  but  even  then  it  struck  firm  earth. 
The  sulphurous  vapor  coiled,  and  fled  away ; 
And  sight  and  sound  came  to  him  where  he  stood, 
There  on  the  jagged  ledges,  half-way  hung 
Betwixt  the  furnace  and  the  crater's  rim. 

And  lo !  beneath,  and  piled  on  either  side, 

A  drift  of  brimstone,  fallen  like  the  snow 

From  those  hot  clouds ;  shining  before  his  eyes, 

Yellow  and  bright  and  crystal-flaked,  it  lay, 

More  worth  than  what  it  seemed  like,  powdered  gold. 

Then,  without  pause,  he  labored  with  the  spade 
Till  the  wide  crate  was  full ;  while,  far  above, 
The  men-at-arms  peered  from  the  outmost  cliff, 
Watching  the  work,  and,  when  the  crate  was  full, 
Drew  up  and  emptied  it  and  let  it  down ; 
So  three  times  drew  it  up  and  lowered  it ; 
But  the  third  time  Montana  stept  within, 
And  signalled.  So  they  lifted  him  again, 
Past  shadowy  lines  of  chasm,  cave,  and  crag, 
Up,  till  the  sky  seemed  nearer  than  the  gulf 
Where  even  to  look  was  ruin ;  but  the  knight. 
Held  to  the  summit,  where  they  drew  him  in 
To  light  and  life.  Thus  was  the  brave  deed  done. 


396 


RESTRAINT 
RESTRAINT 


POET,  in  thy  sacred  verse 
Nothing  light  or  mean  rehearse, 
Nor  its  woven  text  employ 
With  thy  common  grief  and  joy. 
Thoughts  the  unanointed  share 
Need  have  not  of  raiment  rare, 
But  in  prose  may  range  at  will 
And  be  fitly  clothen  still. 

ii 

KEEP  the  fabric  of  thine  art 
As  a  precious  thing  apart  — 
Such  a  robe  as  only  may 
Wrap  one  on  a  holy  day ; 
If  at  all  its  folds  be  thrown 
Round  experience  thine  own, 
Let  it  grace  in  argent  white 
Thy  most  rapturous  delight, 
Or  in  darkest  sable  show 
Deeper  woes  than  others  know, 
Lest  the  mantle,  lightly  worn, 
Bring  thy  trifling  soul  to  scorn. 

in 

LET  thy  skill  no  more  invest 
Listless  fancy,  mocking  jest, 
Fashion  of  the  fleeting  day, 
Shallow  love  and  idle  play, 
Nor  the  wisdom,  poor  and  plain, 
Of  a  dull,  didactic  brain. 
Its  adornment  should  enfold 
Thought  as  rich  and  fine  as  gold. 

397 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

That,  which  to  the  base  of  birth 
Were  a  guise  of  little  worth, 
Shall,  through  thy  regard  intense, 
Gain  from  all  men  reverence ; 
Honor  it  and  thou  shalt  see 
It  will  honor  bring  to  thee. 

IV 

SINGER,  though  on  wings  of  morn 
Thou  at  will  art  swiftly  borne, 
Use  them  not  for  every  quest ; 
Ruffle  not  their  folded  rest 
That  thy  daily  sport  and  toil 
May  be  lifted  from  the  soil. 
Even  the  winged  angels  walk 
Side  by  side  in  pleasant  talk, 
And  with  loitering  footsteps  move 
Through  the  valleys  fair  with  love; 
But  anon,  commissioned  far 
Light  to  strew  from  star  to  star, 
Spread  their  plumes  and  soar  on  high, 
Bearing  glory  through  the  sky  ! 

HELIOTROPE 

I  WALK  in  the  morning  twilight, 

Along  a  garden  slope, 
To  the  shield  of  moss  encircling 

My  beautiful  Heliotrope. 

O  sweetest  of  all  the  flowerets 
That  bloom  where  angels  tread  ! 

But  never  such  marvellous  odor 
From  heliotrope  was  shed, 

As  the  passionate  exhalation, 
The  dew  of  celestial  wine, 

398 


HELIOTROPE 

That  floats  in  tremulous  languor 
Around  this  darling  of  mine. 

For,  only  yester-even, 

I  saw  the  dearest  scene  ! 
I  heard  the  delicate  footfall, 

The  step  of  my  love,  my  queen. 

Along  the  walk  she  glided  : 

I  made  no  sound  nor  sign, 
But  ever,  at  the  turning 

Of  her  star-white  neck  divine, 

I  shrunk  in  the  shade  of  the  cypress, 
And  crouched  in  the  swooning  grass, 

Like  some  Arcadian  shepherd 
To  see  an  Oread  pass. 

But  when  she  came  to  the  border 
At  the  end  of  the  garden-slope, 

She  bent,  like  a  rose-tree,  over 
That  beautiful  Heliotrope. 

The  cloud  of  its  subtile  fragrance 
Entwined  her  in  its  wreath, 

And  all  the  while  commingled 
With  the  incense  of  her  breath. 

And  so  she  glistened  onward, 
Far  down  the  long  parterre, 

Beside  the  statue  of  Hesper, 
And  a  hundred  times  more  fair. 

But  ah  !  her  breath  had  added 

The  perfume  that  I  find 
In  this,  the  sweetest  of  flowerets, 

And  the  paragon  of  its  kind. 
399 


VARIOUS   POEMS 

I  drink  deep  draughts  of  its  nectar ; 

I  faint  with  love  and  hope  ! 
Oh,  what  did  she  whisper  to  you, 

My  beautiful  Heliotrope  ? 

HOPE   DEFERRED 

BRING  no  more  flowers  and  books  and  precious  things ! 

O  speak  no  more  of  our  beloved  Art, 

Of  summer  haunts, —  melodious  wanderings 

In  leafy  refuge  from  this  weary  mart  ! 

Surely  such  thoughts  were  dear  unto  my  heart ;     . 

Now  every  word  a  newer  sadness  brings  ! 

Thus  oft  some  forest-bird,  caged  far  apart 

From  verdurous  freedom,  droops  his  careless  wings, 

Nor  craves  for  more  than  food  from  day  to  day ; 

So  long  bereft  of  wildwood  joy  and  song, 

Hopeless  of  all  he  dared  to  hope  so  long, 

The  music  born  within  him  dies  away  ; 

Even  the  song  he  loved  becomes  a  pain, 

Full-freighted  with  a  yearning  all  in  vain. 

A   MOTHER'S   PICTURE 

SHE  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes  ! 
Once,  when  the  glorifying  moon  revealed 
Her  who  at  evening  by  our  pillow  kneeled,  — 
Soft-voiced  and  golden-haired,  from  holy  skies 
Flown  to  her  loves  on  wings  of  Paradise,  — 
We  looked  to  see  the  pinions  half  concealed. 
The  Tuscan  vines  and  olives  will  not  yield 
Her  back  to  me,  who  loved  her  in  this  wise, 
And  since  have  little  known  her,  but  have  grown 
To  see  another  mother,  tenderly 
Watch  over  sleeping  children  of  my  own. 
Perchance  the  years  have  changed  her  :  yet  alone 
400 


AMAVI 

This  picture  lingers  ;   still  she  seems  to  me 
The  fair  young  angel  of  my  infancy. 


AMAVI 

I  LOVED  :   and  in  the  morning  sky, 

A  magic  castle  upward  grew  ! 
Cloud-haunted  turrets  pointing  high 

Forever  to  the  dreamy  blue  ; 

Bright  fountains  leaping  through  and  through 
The  golden  sunshine ;  on  the  air 

Gay  banners  streaming; — never  drew 
Painter  or  poet  scene  more  fair. 

And  in  that  castle  I  would  live, 

And  in  that  castle  I  would  die; 
And  there,  in  curtained  bowers,  would  give 

Heart-warm  responses,  sigh  for  sigh  ; 

There,  when  but  one  sweet  face  was  nigh, 
The  hours  should  lightly  move  along, 

And  ripple,  as  they  glided  by, 
Like  stanzas  of  an  antique  song. 

O  foolish  heart !   O  young  romance, 

That  faded  with  the  noonday  sun  ! 
Alas,  for  gentle  dalliance, 

For  life-long  pleasures  never  won  ! 

O  for  a  season  dead  and  gone ! 
A  wizard  time,  which  then  did  seem 

Only  a  prelude,  leading  on 
To  sweeter  portions  of  the  dream. 

She  died,  —  nor  wore  my  orange  flowers  :  — 

No  longer,  in  the  morning  sky, 
That  magic  castle  lifts  its  towers 

Which  shone,  awhile,  so  lustrously. 
401 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Torn  are  the  bannerols,  and  dry 
The  silver  fountains  in  its  halls  ; 

But  the  drear  sea,  with  endless  sigh, 
Moans  round  and  over  the  crumbled  walls. 

Let  the  winds  blow  !  let  the  white  surge 

Ever  among  those  ruins  wail ! 
Its  moaning  is  a  welcome  dirge 

For  wishes  that  could  not  avail. 

Let  the  winds  blow !  a  fiercer  gale 
Is  wild  within  me  !   what  may  quell 

That  sullen  tempest?   I  must  sail 
Whither,  O  whither,  who  can  tell  * 


THE    TEST 

SEVEN  women  loved  him.    When  the  wrinkled  pall 

Enwrapt  him  from  their  unfulfilled  desire 
(Death,  pale,  triumphant  rival,  conquering  all,) 

They  came,  for  that  last  look,  around  his  pyre. 

One  strewed  white  roses,  on  whose  leaves  were  hung 
Her  tears,  like  dew ;  and  in  discreet  attire 

Warbled  her  tuneful  sorrow.    Next  among 

The  group,  a  fair-haired  virgin  moved  serenely, 
Whose  saintly  heart  no  vain  repinings  wrung, 

Reached  the  calm  dust,  and  there,  composed  and  queenly. 

Gazed,  but  the  missal  trembled  in  her  hand : 
"That's  with  the  past,"  she  said,  "nor  may  I  meanly 

Give  way  to  tears  !  "  and  passed  into  the  land. 

The  third  hung  feebly  on  the  portals,  moaning, 
With  whitened  lips,  and  feet  that  stood  in  sand, 

402 


ESTELLE 

So  weak  they  seemed,  —  and  all  her  passion  owning. 

The  fourth,  a  ripe,  luxurious  maiden,  came, 
Half  for  such  homage  to  the  dead  atoning 

By  smiles  on  one  who  fanned  a  later  flame 

In  her  slight  soul,  her  fickle  steps  attended. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  were  sisters  ;  at  the  same 

Wild  moment  both  above  the  image  bended, 

And  with  immortal  hatred  each  on  each 
Glared,  and  therewith  her  exultation  blended, 

To  know  the  dead  had  'scaped  the  other's  reach  ! 

Meanwhile,  through  all  the  words  of  anguish  spoken, 
One  lowly  form  had  given  no  sound  of  speech, 

Through  all  the  signs  of  woe,  no  sign  nor  token  ; 

But  when  they  came  to  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
They  found  her  beauty  paled,  —  her  heart  was  broken  : 

And  in  the  Silent  Land  his  shade  confest 
That  she,  of  all  the  seven,  loved  him  best. 


ESTELLE 

"  How  came  he  mad  ?  "  — HAMLET. 

OF  all  the  beautiful  demons  who  fasten  on  human  hearts 
To  fetter  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men  with  exquisite,  mock 
ing  arts, 

The  cruellest,  and  subtlest,  and  fairest  to  mortal  sight, 
Is  surely  a  woman  called  Estelle,  who  tortures  me  day  and 
night. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  her  she  passed  with  sweet  lips  mute, 
As  if  in  scorn  of  the  vacant  praise  of  those  who  made  her 
suit ; 

403 


VARIOUS   POEMS 

A  hundred  lustres  flashed  and  shone  as  she  rustled  through 

the  crowd, 
And  a  passion  seized  me  for  her  there,  —  so  passionless  and 

proud. 

The  second  time  that  I  saw  her  she  met  me  face  to  face ; 

Her  bending  beauty  answered  my  bow  in  a  tremulous  mo 
ment's  space  ; 

With  an  upward  glance  that  instantly  fell  she  read  me 
through  and  through, 

And  found  in  me  something  worth  her  while  to  idle  with 
and  subdue; 

Something,  I  know  not  what :   perhaps  the  spirit  of  eager 

youth, 
That  named  her  a  queen  of  queens  at  once,  and  loved  her 

in  very  truth ; 
That  threw  its  pearl  of  pearls  at  her  feet,  and  offered  her, 

in  a  breath, 
The  costliest  gift  a  man  can  give  from  his  cradle  to  his  death. 

The  third  time  that  I  saw  her  —  this  woman  called  Estelle  — 

She  passed  her  milk-white  arm  through  mine  and  dazzled 
me  with  her  spell ; 

A  blissful  fever  thrilled  my  veins,  and  there,  in  the  moon 
beams  white, 

I  yielded  my  soul  to  the  fierce  control  of  that  maddening 
delight ! 

And  at  many  a  trysting  afterwards  she  wove  my  heart 
strings  round 

Her  delicate  fingers,  twisting  them,  and  chanting  low  as  she 
wound; 

The  rune  she  sang  rang  sweet  and  clear  like  the  chime  of  a 
witch's  bell ; 

Its  echo  haunts  me  even  now,  with  the  word,  Estelle  ! 
Estelle ! 

404 


ESTELLE 

Ah,  then,  as  a  dozen  before  me  had,  I  lay  at  last  at  her 

feet, 
And   she  turned   me   off  with  a   calm   surprise  when   her 

triumph  was  all  complete  : 
It  made  me  wild,  the  stroke  which  smiled  so  pitiless  out  of 

her  eyes, 
Like  lightning  fallen,  in  clear  noonday,  from  cloudless  and 

bluest  skies  ! 

The  whirlwind  followed  upon  my  brain  and  beat  my  thoughts 

to  rack : 
Who  knows  the  many  a  month  I  lay  ere  memory  floated 

back  ? 
Even  now,  I  tell  you,  I  wonder  whether  this  woman  called 

Estelle 
Is  flesh  and  blood,  or  a  beautiful  lie,  sertt  up  from  the  depths 

of  hell. 

For  at  night  she  stands  where  the  pallid  moon  streams  into 

this  grated  cell, 
And  only  gives  me  that  mocking  glance  when  I  speak  her 

name  —  Estelle  ! 
With  the  old  resistless  longing  often  I  strive  to  clasp  her 

there, 
But  she  vanishes  from  my  open  arms  and  hides  I  know  not 

where. 

And  I  hold  that  if  she  were  human  she  could  not  fly  like 

the  wind, 
But  her  heart  would  flutter  against  my  own,  in  spite  of  her 

scornful  mind: 
Yet,  oh  !    she  is  not  a  phantom,  since  devils  are  not  so 

bad 
As  to  haunt  and  torture  a  man  long  after  their  tricks  have 

made  him  mad! 


405 


VARIOUS    POEMS 


EDGED    TOOLS 

WELL,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown 

Since  that  enchanted,  dreamy  night, 
When  you  and  I  were  left  alone, 

And  wondered  whether  they  were  right 
Who  said  that  each  the  other  loved ; 

And  thus  debating,  yes  and  no, 
And  half  in  earnest,  as  it  proved, 

We  bargained  to  pretend  't  was  so. 

Two  sceptic  children  of  the  world, 

Each  with  a  heart  engraven  o'er 
With  broken  love-knots,  quaintly  curled, 

Of  hot  flirtations  held  before  ; 
Yet,  somehow,  either  seemed  to  find, 

This  time,  a  something  more  akin 
To  that  young,  natural  love,  —  the  kind 

Which  comes  but  once,  and  breaks  us  in. 

What  sweetly  stolen  hours  we  knew, 

And  frolics  perilous  as  gay  ! 
Though  lit  in  sport,  Love's  taper  grew 

More  bright  and  burning  day  by  day. 
We  knew  each  heart  was  only  lent, 

The  other's  ancient  scars  to  heal  : 
The  very  thought  a  pathos  blent 

With  all  the  mirth  we  tried  to  feel. 

How  bravely,  when  the  time  to  part 
Came  with  the  wanton  season's  close, 

Though  nature  with  our  mutual  art 
Had  mingled  more  than  either  chose, 

We  smothered  Love,  upon  the  verge 
Of  folly,  in  one  last  embrace, 
406 


ANONYMA 

And  buried  him  without  a  dirge, 

And  turned,  and  left  his  resting-place. 

Yet  often  (tell  me  what  it  means  !) 

His  spirit  steals  upon  me  here, 
Far,  far  away  from  all  the  scenes 

His  little  lifetime  held  so  dear ; 
He  comes  :   I  hear  a  mystic  strain 

In  which  some  tender  memory  lies  ; 
I  dally  with  your  hair  again ; 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  violet  eyes. 

Ah,  Helen  !   how  have  matters  been 

Since  those  rude  obsequies,  with  you  ? 
Say,  is  my  partner  in  the  sin 

A  sharer  of  the  penance  too  ? 
Again  the  vision  's  at  my  side  : 

I  drop  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  wonder  if  he  really  died, 

And  why  his  spirit  will  not  rest. 
1861 

ANONYMA 

HER    CONFESSION 

IF  I  had  been  a  rich  man's  girl, 

With  my  tawny  hair,  and  this  wanton  art  . 
Of  lifting  my  eyes  in  the  evening  whirl 

And  Igoking  into  another's  heart ; 
Had  love  been  mine  at  birth,  and  friends 

Caressing  and  guarding  me  night  and  day, 
With  doctors  to  watch  my  finger-ends, 

And  a  parson  to  teach  me  how  to  pray  ; 

If  I  had  been  reared  as  others  have,  — 

With  but  a  tithe  of  these  looks,  which  came 

407 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

From  my  reckless  mother,  now  in  her  grave, 
And  the  father  who  grudged  me  even  his  name, 

Why,  I  should  have  station  and  tender  care, 
Should  ruin  men  in  the  high-bred  way, 

Passionless,  smiling  at  their  despair, 
And  marrying  'where  my  vantage  lay. 

As  it  is,  I  must  have  love  and  dress, 

Jewelled  trinkets,  and  costly  food, 
For  I  was  born  for  plenteousness, 

Music  and  flowers,  and  all  things  good. 
To  that  same  father  I  owe  some  thanks, 

Seeing,  at  least,  that  blood  will  tell, 
And  keep  me  ever  above  the  ranks 

Of  those  who  wallow  where  they  fell. 

True,  there  are  weary,  weary  days 

In  the  great  hotel  where  I  make  my  lair, 
Where  I  meet  the  men  with  their  brutal  praise, 

Or  answer  the  women,  stare  for  stare. 
'T  is  an  even  fight,  and  I  '11  carry  it  through,  — 

Pit  them  against  me,  great  and  small : 
I  grant  no  quarter,  nor  would  I  sue 

For  grace  to  the  softest  of  them  all. 

I  cannot  remember  half  the  men 

Whose  sin  has  tangled  them  in  my  toils, — 
All  are  alike  before  me  then, 

Part  of  my  easily  conquered  spoils : 
Tall  or  short,  and  dark  or  fair, 

Rich  or  famous,  haughty  or  fond, 
There  are  few,  I  find,  who  will  not  forswear 

The  lover's  oath  and  the  wedding  bond. 

Fools !  what  is  it  that  drives  them  on 
With  their  perjured  lips  on  poison  fed ; 

Vain  of  themselves,  and  cruel  as  stone, 
How  should  they  be  so  cheaply  led  ? 
408 


SPOKEN    AT    SEA 

Surely  they  know  me  as  I  am, — 

Only  a  cuckoo,  at  the  best, 
Watching,  careless  of  hate  and  shame, 

To  crouch  myself  in  another's  nest. 

But  the  women,  —  how  they  flutter  and  flout, 

The  stupid,  terribly  virtuous  wives, 
If  I  but  chance  to  move  about 

Or  enter  within  their  bustling  hives  ! 
Buz  !  buz !  in  the  scandalous  gatherings, 

When  a  strange  queen  lights  amid  their  throng, 
And  their  tongues  have  a  thousand  angry  stings 

To  send  her  travelling,  right  or  wrong. 

Well,  the  earth  is  wide  and  open  to  all, 

And  money  and  men  are  everywhere, 
And,  as  I  roam,  't  will  ill  befall 

If  I  do  not  gain  my  lawful  share : 
One  drops  ofF,  but  another  will  come 

With  as  light  a  head  and  heavy  a  purse ; 
So  long  as  I  have  the  world  for  a  home, 

I  '11  take  my  fortune,  better  or  worse  ! 

SPOKEN    AT    SEA 

THE   LOG-BOOK   OF   THE   STEAMSHIP   VIRGINIA 

TWELVE  hundred  miles  and  more 
From  the  stormy  English  shore, 

All  aright,  the  seventh  night, 
On  her  course  our  vessel  bore. 
Her  lantern  shone  ahead, 
And  the  green  lamp  and  the  red 

To  starboard  and  to  larboard 
Shot  their  light. 

Close  on  the  midnight  call 
What  a  mist  began  to  fall, 
409 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

And  to  hide  the  ocean  wide, 
And  to  wrap  us  in  a  pall  I 
Beneath  its  folds  we  past : 
Hidden  were  shroud  and  mast, 

And  faces,  in  near  places 
Side  by  side. 

Sudden  there  also  fell 
A  summons  like  a  knell : 

Every  ear  the  words  could  hear,  — 
Whence  spoken,  who  could  tell  ? 
"  What  ship  is  this  ?  where  bound  ?  " 
Gods,  what  a  dismal  sound  I 
A  stranger,  and  in  danger, 
Sailing  near. 

"  The  Virginia,  on  her  route 
From  the  Mersey,  seven  days  out ; 

Fore  and  aft,  our  trusty  craft 
Carries  a  thousand  souls,  about." 
"  All  these  souls  may  travel  still, 
Westward  bound,  if  so  they  will ; 
Bodies  rather,  I  would  gather  !  " 
Loud  he  laughed. 

"Who  is  't  that  hails  so  rude, 
And  for  what  this  idle  mood  ? 

Words  like  these,  on  midnight  seas. 
Bode  no  friend  nor  fortune  good  !  " 
"  Care  not  to  know  my  name, 
But  whence  I  lastly  came, 
At  leisure,  for  my  pleasure, 
Ask  the  breeze. 

"  To  the  people  of  your  port 
Bear  a  message  of  this  sort  : 

Say,  I  haste  unto  the  West, 
A  sharer  of  their  sport. 
410 


THE    DUKE'S    EXEQUY 

Let  them  sweep  the  houses  clean : 
Their  fathers  did,  I  ween, 
When  hearing  of  my  nearing 
As  a  guest ! 

"  As  by  Halifax  ye  sail 
And  the  steamship  England  hail, 

Of  me,  then,  bespeak  her  men ; 
She  took  my  latest  mail, — 
'T  was  somewhere  near  this  spot : 
Doubtless  they  've  not  forgot. 

Remind  them  (if  you  find  them!) 
Once  again. 

"  Yet  that  you  alt  may  know 
Who  is  't  that  hailed  you  so, 

(Slow  he  saith,  and  under  breath,) 
I  leave  my  sign  below  !  " 
Then  from  our  crowded  hold 
A  dreadful  cry  uprolled, 

Unbroken,  and  the  token,  - 
It  was  Death. 


THE   DUKE'S   EXEQUY 

ARRAS,  A.  D.   1404 

CLOTHED  in  sable,  crowned  with  gold, 
All  his  wars  and  councils  ended, 
Philip  lay,  surnamed  The  Bold  : 
Passing-bell  his  quittance  tolled, 
And  the  chant  of  priests  ascended. 

Mailed-knights  and  archers  stand, 
Thronging  in  the  church  of  Arras  ; 
Nevermore  at  his  command 
411 


VARIOUS   POEMS 

Shall  they  scour  the  Netherland, 
Nevermore  the  outlaws  harass ; 

Naught  is  left  of  his  array 

Save  a  barren  territory  ; 

Forty  years  of  generous  sway 
Sped  his  princely  hoards  away, 

Bartered  all  his  gold  for  glory. 

Forth  steps  Flemish  Margaret  then. 
Striding  toward  the  silent  ashes ; 
And  the  eyes  of  armed  men 
Fill  with  startled  wonder,  when 
On  the  bier  her  girdle  clashes  ! 

Swift  she  drew  it  from  her  waist, 
And  the  purse  and  keys  it  carried 

On  the  ducal  coffin  placed ; 

Then  with  proud  demeanor  faced 
Sword  and  shield  of  him  she  married. 

"  No  encumbrance  of  the  dead 
Must  the  living  clog  forever ; 

From  thy  debts  and  dues,"  she  said 
u  From  the  liens  of  thy  bed, 
We  this  day  our  line  dissever. 

u  From  thy  hand  we  gain  release, 
Know  all  present  by  this  token  ! 
Let  the  dead  repose  in  peace, 
Let  the  claims  upon  us  cease 
When  the  ties  that  bound  are  broken. 

"  Philip,  we  have  loved  thee  long, 
But,  in  years  of  future  splendor, 
Burgundy  shall  count  among 
Bravest  deeds  of  tale  and  song 
This,  our  widowhood's  surrender." 
412 


CUBA 

Back  the  stately  Duchess  turned, 
While  the  priests  and  friars  chanted, 
And  the  swinging  incense  burned  : 
Thus  by  feudal  right  was  earned 
Greatness  for  a  race  undaunted. 


CUBA 

Is  it  naught  ?  Is  it  naught 
That  the  South-wind  brings  her  wail  to  our  shore, 

That  the  spoilers  compass  our  desolate  sister  ? 
Is  it  naught  ?   Must  we  say  to  her,  "  Strive  no  more." 

With  the  lips  wherewith  we  loved  her  and  kissed  her  ? 
With  the  mocking  lips  wherewith  we  said, 

"  Thou  art  the  dearest  and  fairest  to  us 
Of  all  the  daughters  the  sea  hath  bred, 

Of  all  green-girdled  isles  that  woo  us  !  " 
Is  it  naught  ? 

Must  ye  wait  ?   Must  ye  wait, 
Till  they  ravage  her  gardens  of  orange  and  palm, 

Till  her  heart  is  dust,  till  her  strength  is  water  ? 
Must  ye  see  them  trample  her,  and  be  calm, 

As  priests  when  a  virgin  is  led  to  slaughter  ? 
Shall  they  smite  the  marvel  of  all  lands, — 

The  nation's  longing,  the  Earth's  completeness, — 
On  her  red  mouth  dropping  myrrh,  her  hands 

Filled  with  fruitage  and  spice  and  sweetness  ? 
Must  ye  wait  ? 

In  the  day,  in  the  night, 
In  the  burning  day,  in  the  dolorous  night, 

Her  sun-browned  cheeks  are  stained  with  weeping. 
Her  watch-fires  beacon  the  misty  height :  — 

Why  are  her  friends  and  lovers  sleeping  ? 

413 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

"  Ye,  at  whose  ear  the  flatterer  bends, 

Who  were  my  kindred  before  all  others, — 
Hath  he  set  your  hearts  afar,  my  friends  ? 
Hath  he  made  ye  alien,  my  brothers, 
Day  and  night  ?  " 

Hear  ye  not  ?   Hear  ye  not 
From  the  hollow  sea  the  sound  of  her  voice ; 
The  passionate,  far-off  tone,  which  sayeth  : 
u  Alas,  my  brothers  !   alas,  what  choice, — 

The  lust  that  shameth,  the  sword  that  slayeth  ? 
They  bind  me  !  they  rend  my  delicate  locks ; 
They  shred  the  beautiful  robes  I  won  me  ! 
My  round  limbs  bleed  on  the  mountain  rocks : 
Save  me,  ere  they  have  quite  undone  me  !  " 
Hear  ye  not  ? 

Speak  at  last !   Speak  at  last  ! 
In  the  might  of  your  strength,  in  the  strength  of  your 

right, 

Speak  out  at  last  to  the  treacherous  spoiler ! 
Say  :  u  Will  ye  harry  her  in  our  sight  ? 

Ye  shall  not  trample  her  down,  nor  soil  her ! 
Loose  her  bonds  !   let  her  rise  in  her  loveliness, — 

Our  virginal  sister ;  or,  if  ye  shame  her, 
Dark  Amnon  shall  rue  for  her  sore  distress, 

And  her  sure  revenge  shall  be  that  of  Tamar  !  " 

Speak  at  last ! 
1870. 


THE   COMEDIAN'S   LAST   NIGHT 

NOT  yet  !   No,  no,  —  you  would  not  quote 
That  meanest  of  the  critic's  gags  ? 

JT  was  surely  not  of  me  they  wrote 
Those  words,  too  late  the  veteran  lags : 
414 


THE    COMEDIAN'S    LAST   NIGHT 

'T  is  not  so  very  late  with  me ; 

I  'm  not  so  old  as  that,  you  know, 
Though  work  and  trouble  —  as  you  see  — 

(Not  years)  have  brought  me  somewhat  low. 
I  failed,  you  say  ?  No,  no,  not  yet  ! 

Or,  if  I  did,  —  with  such  a  past, 
Where  is  the  man  would  have  me  quit 

Without  one  triumph  at  the  last  ? 

But  one  night  more, —  a  little  thing 

To  you,  —  I  swear  't  is  all  I  ask  ! 
Once  more  to  make  the  wide  house  ring,  — 

To  tread  the  boards,  to  wear  the  mask, 
To  move  the  coldest  as  of  yore, 

To  make  them  laugh,  to  make  them  cry, 
To  be  —  to  be  myself  once  more, 

And  then,  if  must  be,  let  me  die  ! 
The  prompter's  bell !   I  'm  here,  you  see : 

By  Heaven,  friends,  you  '11  break  my  heart  ! 
Nat  Gosling  'j  called :   let  be,  let  be,  — 

None  but  myself  shall  act  the  part  ! 


Yes,  thank  you,  boy,  I  '11  take  your  chair 

One  moment,  while  I  catch  my  breath. 
D'  ye  hear  the  noise  they  're  making  there  ? 

JT  would  warm  a  player's  heart  in  death. 
How  say  you  now  ?   Whate'er  they  write, 

We  Jve  put  that  bitter  gibe  to  shame  ; 
I  knew,  I  knew  there  burned  to-night 

Within  my  soul  the  olden  flame  ! 
Stand  off  a  bit  :   that  final  round,  — 

I  'd  hear  it  ere  it  dies  away 
The  last,  last  time  !  —  there  's  no  more  sound 

So  end  the  player  and  the  play. 

The  house  is  cleared.   My  senses  swim  ; 
I  shall  be  better,  though,  anqn,  — 
415 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

One  stumbles  when  the  lights  are  dim,  — 

'T  is  growing  late  :  we  must  be  gone. 
Well,  braver  luck  than  mine,  old  friends  ! 

A  little  work  and  fame  are  ours 
While  Heaven  health  and  fortune  lends, 

And  then  —  the  coffin  and  the  flowers  ! 
These  scattered  garments  ?  let  them  lie  : 

Some  fresher  actor  (I  'm  not  vain) 
Will  dress  anew  the  part ;  —  but  I  — 

/  shall  not  put  them  on  again. 
November  17,  1875. 


LE   JOUR   DU   ROSSIGNOL 

'T  WAS  the  season  of  feasts,  when  the  blithe  birds  had  met 
In  their  easternmost  arbor,  an  innocent  throng, 

And  they  made  the  glad  birthday  of  each  gladder  yet, 
With  the  daintiest  cheer  and  the  rarest  of  song. 

What  brave  tirra-lirras  !    But  clear  amid  all, 
At  each  festival  held  in  the  favorite  haunt, 

The  nightingale's  music  would  quaver  and  fall, 
And  surest  and  sweetest  of  all  was  his  chant. 

At  last  came  the  nightingale's  fete,  and  they  sought 
To  make  it  the  blithefullest  tryst  of  the  year, 

Since  this  was  the  songster  that  oftenest  caught 
The  moment's  quick  rapture,  the  joy  that  is  near. 

But,  alas  !   half  in  vain  the  fine  chorus  they  made; 

Fresh-plumed  and  all  fluttering,  and  uttering  their  best, 
For  silent  among  them,  so  etiquette  bade, 

To  the  notes  of  his  praisers  sat  listening  the  guest. 

ghiel  dommage  !  Must  a  failure,  like  theirs,  be  our  feast  ? 
Must  our  chorister's  voice  at  his  own  fete  be  still  ? 
416 


CRABBED    AGE   AND    YOUTH 

While  he  thinks  :  "  You  are  kind.    May  your  tribe  be  in 
creased  ; 
But  at  this  I  can  give  you  such  odds  if  I  will !  " 

What  avail,  fellow-minstrels,  our  crotchets  and  staves, 
Though  your  tribute,  like  mine,  rises  straight  from  the  heart, 

Unless  while  the  bough  on  his  laurel-bush  waves, 
To  his  own  sangerfest  the  one  guest  lends  his  art  ? 

Whose  swift  wit  like  his,  with  which  none  dares  to  vie, 
Whose  carol  so  instant,  so  joyous  and  true  ? 

Sound  it  cheerly,  dear  HOLMES,  for  the  sun  is  still  high, 
And  we  're  glad,  as  he  halts,  to  be  out-sung  by  you. 


CRABBED   AGE   AND    YOUTH 

OUT,  out,  Old  Age !  aroint  ye ! 

I  fain  would  disappoint  ye, 

Nor  wrinkled  grow  and  learned 

Before  I  am  inurned. 

Ruthless  the  Hours  and  hoary, 

That  scatter  ills  before  ye ! 

Thy  touch  is  pestilential, 

Thy  lays  are  penitential ; 

With  stealthy  steps  thou  stealest 

And  life's  hot  tide  congealest ; 

Before  thee  vainly  flying 

We  are  already  dying. 

Why  must  the  blood  grow  colder, 

And  men  and  maidens  older? 

Bring  not  thy  maledictions, 

Thy  grewsome,  grim  afflictions, — 

Thy  bodings  bring  not  hither 

To  make  us  blight  and  wither. 

When  this  thy  frost  hath  bound  us, 

All  fairer  things  around  us 

417 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Seem  Youth's  divine  extortion 
In  which  we  have  no  portion. 
"  Fie,  Senex  !  "  saith  a  lass  now, 
u  What  need  ye  of  a  glass  now  ? 
Though  flowers  of  May  be  springing 
And  I  my  songs  are  singing, 
Thy  blood  no  wit  the  faster 
Doth  flow,  my  ancient  Master !  " 
Age  is  by  Youth  delighted, 
Youth  is  by  Age  affrighted ; 
Blithe  sunny  May  and  joysome 
Still  finds  December  noisome. 
Alack  !  a  guest  unbidden, 
Howe'er  our  feast  be  hidden, 
Doth  enter  with  the  feaster 
And  make  a  Lent  of  Easter ! 
I  would  thou  wert  not  able 
To  seat  thee  at  our  table  ; 
I  would  that  altogether 
From  this  thy  wintry  weather, 
Since  Youth  and  Love  must  leave  us, 
Death  might  at  once  retrieve  us. 
Old  wizard,  ill  betide  ye ! 
I  cannot  yet  abide  ye  ! 

Ah,  Youth,  sweet  Youth,  I  love  ye ! 
There  's  naught  on  Earth  above  ye  ! 
Thou  purling  bird  uncaged 
That  never  wilt  grow  aged, 
To  whom  each  day  is  giving 
Increase  of  joyous  living  ! 
Soft  words  to  thee  are  spoken, 
For  thee  strong  vows  are  broken, 
All  loves  and  lovers  cluster, 
To  bask  them  in  thy  lustre. 
Ah,  girlhood,  pout  and  dimple, 
Half  hid  beneath  the  wimple  ! 
418 


HYPATIA 

Ah,  boyhood,  blithe  and  cruel, 

Whose  heat  doth  need  no  fuel, 

No  help  of  wine  and  spices 

And  frigid  Eld's  devices  ! 

All  pleasant  things  ye  find  you, 

And  to  your  sweet  selves  bind  you. 

For  you  alone  the  motion 

Of  brave  ships  on  the  ocean  ; 

All  stars  for  you  are  shining, 

All  wreaths  your  foreheads  twining  ; 

All  joys,  your  joys  decreeing, 

Are  portions  of  your  being,— 

All  fairest  sights  your  features, 

Ye  selfish,  soulful  creatures  ! 

Sing  me  no  more  distiches 

Of  glory,  wisdom,  riches  ; 

Tell  me  no  beldame's  story 

Of  wisdom,  wealth,  and  glory  ! 

To  Youth  these  are  a  wonder,— 

To  Age  a  corpse-light  under 

The  tomb  with  rusted  portal 

Of  that  which  seemed  immortal. 

I,  too,  in  Youth's  dear  fetter, 

Will  love  my  foeman  better,— 

Ay,  though  his  ill  I  study,— 

So  he  be  young  and  ruddy, 

Than  comrade  true  and  golden, 

So  he  be  waxen  olden. 

Ah,  winsome  Youth,  stay  by  us  ! 

I  prithee,  do  not  fly  us  ! 

Ah,  Youth,  sweet  Youth,  I  love  ye  ! 

There  's  naught  on  Earth  above  ye  ! 

HYPATIA 

JT  is  fifteen  hundred  years,  you  say, 
Since  that  fair  teacher  died 
419 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

In  learned  Alexandria 

By  the  stone  altar's  side  :  — 
The  wild  monks  slew  her,  as  she  lay 

At  the  feet  of  the  Crucified. 

Yet  in  a  prairie-town,  one  night, 

I  found  her  lecture-hall, 
Where  bench  and  dais  stood  aright, 

And  statues  graced  the  wall, 
And  pendent  brazen  lamps  the  light 

Of  classic  days  let  fall. 

A  throng  that  watched  the  speaker's  face, 

And  on  her  accents  hung, 
Was  gathered  there  :  the  strength,  the  grace 

Of  lands  where  life  is  young 
Ceased  not,  I  saw,  with  that  blithe  race 

From  old  Pelasgia  sprung. 

No  civic  crown  the  sibyl  wore, 

Nor  academic  tire, 
But  shining  skirts,  that  trailed  the  floor 

And  made  her  stature  higher  ; 
A  written  scroll  the  lecturn  bore, 

And  flowers  bloomed  anigh  her. 

The  wealth  her  honeyed  speech  had  won 

Adorned  her  in  our  sight  ; 
The  silkworm  for  her  sake  had  spun 

His  cincture,  day  and  night ; 
With  broider-work  and  Honiton 

Her  open  sleeves  were  bright, 

But  still  Hypatia's  self  I  knew, 
And  saw,  with  dreamy  wonder, 

The  form  of  her  whom  Cyril  slew 
(See  Kingsley's  novel,  yonder) 
420 


HYPATIA 

Some  fifteen  centuries  since,  't  is  true, 
And  half  a  world  asunder. 

Her  hair  was  coifed  Athenian-wise, 
With  one  loose  tress  down-flowing; 

Apollo's  rapture  lit  her  eyes, 
His  utterance  bestowing, — 

A  silver  flute's  clear  harmonies 
On  which  a  god  was  blowing. 

Yet  not  of  Plato's  sounding  spheres, 

And  universal  Pan, 
She  spoke ;  but  searched  historic  years, 

The  sisterhood  to  scan 
Of  women, —  girt  with  ills  and  fears,  — 

Slaves  to  the  tyrant,  Man. 

Their  crosiered  banner  she  unfurled, 
And  onward  pushed  her  quest 

Through  golden  ages  of  a  world 
By  their  deliverance  blest :  — 

At  all  who  stay  their  hands  she  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  breast. 

I  saw  her  burning  words  infuse 
A  warmth  through  many  a  heart, 

As  still,  in  bright  successive  views, 
She  drew  her  sex's  part ; 

Discoursing,  like  the  Lesbian  Muse, 
Of  work,  and  song,  and  art. 

Why  vaunt,  I  thought,  the  past,  or  say 

The  later  is  the  less  ? 
Our  Sappho  sang  but  yesterday, 

Of  whom  two  climes  confess 
Heaven's  flame  within  her  wore  away 

Her  earthly  loveliness. 
421 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

So  let  thy  wild  heart  ripple  on, 
Brave  girl,  through  vale  and  city  ! 

Spue,  of  its  listless  moments,  one 
To  this,  thy  poet's  ditty ; 

Nor  long  forbear,  when  all  is  done, 
Thine  own  sweet  self  to  pity. 

The  priestess  of  the  Sestian  tower, 
Whose  knight  the  sea  swam  over, 

Among  her  votaries'  gifts  no  flower 
Of  heart's-ease  could  discover  : 

She  died,  but  in  no  evil  hour, 
Who,  dying,  clasped  her  lover. 

The  rose-tree  has  its  perfect  life 
\\Tien  the  full  rose  is  blown ; 

Some  height  of  womanhood  the  wife 
Beyond  thy  dream  has  known ; 

Set  not  thy  head  and  heart  at  strife 
To  keep  thee  from  thine  own. 

Hvpatia  !  thine  essence  rare 
The  rarer  joy  should  merit : 

Possess  thee  of  that  common  share 
Which  lesser  souls  inherit : 

All  gods  to  thee  their  garlands  bear,  — 
Take  one  from  Love  and  wear  it  ! 


SISTER    BEATRICE 

A  LfGEXD  F*OM    THE    "  SERMOVES     DlSCIPULI "     OF    JEAX    HEROLT, 
THE  DOUIXICAX,   A.    D.     1518 

A  CLOISTER  tale, —  a  strange  and  ancient  thing 
Long  since  on  vellum  writ  in  gules  and  or : 

And  why  should  Chance  to  me  this  trover  bring 

From  the  grim  dust-heap  of  forgotten  lore, 

422 


SISTER    BEATRICE 

And  not  to  that  gray  bard  still  measuring 

His  laurelled  years  by  music's  golden  score, 
Nor  to  some  comrade  who  like  him  has  caught 
The  charm  of  lands  by  me  too  long  unsought  ? 

Why  not  to  one  who,  with  a  steadfast  eye, 
Ingathering  her  shadow  and  her  sheen, 

Saw  Venice  as  she  is,  and,  standing  nigh, 

Drew  from  the  life  that  old,  dismantled  queen  ? 

Or  to  the  poet  through  whom  I  well  descry 
Castile,  and  the  Campeador's  demesne  ? 

Or  to  that  eager  one  whose  quest  has  found 

Each  place  of  long  renown,  the  world  around ; 

Whose  foot  has  rested  firm  on  either  hill,  — 

The  sea-girt  height  where  glows  the  midnight  sun, 

And  wild  Parnassus;  whose  melodious  skill 
Has  left  no  song  untried,  no  wreath  unwon  ? 

Why  not  to  these  ?    Yet,  since  by  Fortune's  will 
This  quaint  task  given  me  I  must  not  shun, 

My  verse  shall  render,  fitly  as  it  may, 

An  old  church  legend,  meet  for  Christmas  Day. 

Once  on  a  time  (so  read  the  monkish  pages), 
Within  a  convent  —  that  doth  still  abide 

Even  as  it  stood  in  those  devouter  ages, 
Near  a  fair  city,  by  the  highway's  side  — 

There  dwelt  a  sisterhood  of  them  whose  wages 
Are  stored  in  heaven  :  each  a  virgin  bride 

Of  Christ,  and  bounden  meekly  to  endure 

In  faith,  and  works,  and  chastity  most  pure. 

A  convent,  and  within  a  summer-land, 
Like  that  of  Browning  and  Boccaccio  ! 

Years  since,  my  greener  fancy  would  have  planned 
Its  station  thus:   it  should  have  had,  I  trow, 
423 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

A  square  and  flattened  bell-tower,  that  might  stand 

Above  deep-windowed  buildings  long  and  low, 
Closed  all  securely  by  a  vine-clung  wall, 
And  shadowed  on  one  side  by  cypress  tall. 

Within  the  gate,  a  garden  set  with  care  : 

Box-bordered  plots,  where  peach  and  almond  trees 

Rained  blossoms  on  the  maidens  walking  there, 
Or  rustled  softly  in  the  summer  breeze  ; 

Here  were  sweet  jessamine  and  jonquil  rare, 
And  arbors  meet  for  pious  talk  at  ease  ; 

There  must  have  been  a  dove-cote  too,  I  know, 

Where  white-winged  birds  like  spirits  come  and  go. 

Outside,  the  thrush  and  lark  their  music  made 
Beyond  the  olive-grove  at  dewy  morn  ; 

By  noon,  cicalas,  shrilling  in  the  shade 

Of  oak  and  ilex,  woke  the  peasant's  horn; 

And,  at  the  time  when  into  darkness  fade 

The  vineyards,  from  their  purple  depths  were  borne 

The  nightingale's  responses  to  the  prayer 

Of  those  sweet  saints  at  vespers,  meek  and  fair. 

Such  is  the  place  that,  with  the  hand  and  eye 

Which  are  the  joy  of  youth,  I  should  have  painted. 

Say  not,  who  look  thereon,  that  Jt  is  awry  — 
Like  nothing  real,  by  rhymesters'  use  attainted. 

Ah  well !  then  put  the  faulty  picture  by, 

And  help  me  draw  an  abbess  long  since  sainted. 

Think  of  your  love,  each  one,  and  thereby  guess 

The  fashion  of  this  lady's  beauteousness. 

For  in  this  convent  Sister  Beatrice, 

Of  all  her  nuns  the  fairest  and  most  young, 

Became,  through  grace  and  special  holiness, 

Their  sacred  head,  and  moved,  her  brood  among, 
424 


SISTER   BEATRICE 

Devote  d'ame  et fervent e  au  service-, 

And  thrice  each  day,  their  hymns  and  Aves  sung, 
At  Mary's  altar  would  before  them  kneel, 
Keeping  her  vows  with  chaste  and  pious  zeal. 

Now  in  the  Holy  Church  there  was  a  clerk, 
A  godly-seeming  man  (as  such  there  be 

Whose  selfish  hearts  with  craft  and  guile  are  dark), 
Young,  gentle-phrased,  of  handsome  mien  and  free. 

His  passion  chose  this  maiden  for  its  mark, 
Begrudging  heaven  her  white  chastity, 

And  with  most  sacrilegious  art  the  while 

He  sought  her  trustful  nature  to  beguile. 

Oft  as  they  met,  with  subtle  hardihood 

He  still  more  archly  played  the  traitor's  part, 

And  strove  to  wake  that  murmur  in  her  blood 
That  times  the  pulses  of  a  woman's  heart ; 

And  in  her  innocence  she  long  withstood 
The  secret  tempter,  but  at  last  his  art 

Changed  all  her  tranquil  thoughts  to  Jove's  desire, 

Her  vestal  flame  to  earth's  unhallowed  fire. 

So  the  fair  governess,  o'ermastered,  gave 

Herself  to  the  destroyer,  yet  as  one 
That  slays,  in  pity,  her  sweet  self,  to  save 

Another  from  some  wretched  deed  undone ; 
But  when  she  found  her  heart  was  folly's  slave, 

She  sought  the  altar  which  her  steps  must  shun 
Thenceforth,  and  yielded  up  her  sacred  trust, 
Ere  tasting  that  false  fruit  which  turns  to  dust. 

One  eve  the  nuns  beheld  her  entering 
Alone,  as  if  for  prayer  beneath  the  rood, 

Their  chapel-shrine,  wherein  the  offering 

And  masterpiece  of  some  great  painter  stood,  — 
425 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

The  Virgin  Mother,  without  plume  or  wing 

Ascending,  poised  in  rapt  beatitude, 
With  hands  crosswise,  and  intercession  mild 
For  all  who  crave  her  mercy  undefiled. 

There  Beatrice  —  poor,  guilty,  desperate  maid  — 
Took  from  her  belt  the  convent's  blessed  keys, 

And  with  them  on  the  altar  humbly  laid 
Her  missal,  uttering  such  words  as  these 

(Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  all  her  soul  afraid)  : 
"  O  dearest  mistress,  hear  me  on  my  knees 

Confess  to  thee,  in  helplessness  and  shame, 

I  am  no  longer  fit  to  speak  thy  name. 

Take  back  the  keys  wherewith  in  constancy 
Thy  house  and  altar  I  have  guarded  well ! 

No  more  may  Beatrice  thy  servant  be, 

For  earthly  love  her  steps  must  needs  compel. 

Forget  me  in  this  sore  infirmity 

When  my  successor  here  her  beads  shall  tell." 

This  said,  the  girl  withdrew  her  as  she  might, 

And  with  her  lover  fled  that  selfsame  night  j 

Fled  out,  and  into  the  relentless  world 

Where  Love  abides,  but  Love  that  breedeth  Sorrow, 
Where  Purity  still  weeps  with  pinions  furled, 

And  Passion  lies  in  wait  her  all  to  borrow. 
From  such  a  height  to  such  abasement  whirled 

She  fled  that  night,  and  many  a  day  and  morrow 
Abode  indeed  with  him  for  whose  embrace 
She  bartered  heaven  and  her  hope  of  grace. 

O  fickle  will  and  pitiless  desire, 

Twin  wolves,  that  raven  in  a  lustful  heart 

And  spare  not  innocence,  nor  yield,  nor  tire, 

But  youth  from  joy  and  life  from  goodness  part ; 
426 


SISTER    BEATRICE 

That  drag  an  unstained  victim  to  the  mire, 

Then  cast  it  soiled  and  hopeless  on  the  mart ! 
Even  so  the  clerk,  once  having  dulled  his  longing, 
A  worse  thing  did  than  that  first  bitter  wronging. 

The  base  hind  left  her,  ruined  and  alone, 
Unknowing  by  what  craft  to  gain  her  bread 

In  the  hard  world  that  gives  to  Want  a  stone. 
What  marvel  that  she  drifted  whither  led 

The  current,  that  with  none  to  heed  her  moan 
She  reached  the  shore  where  life  on  husks  is  fed, 

Sank  down,  and,  in  the  strangeness  of  her  fall, 

Among  her  fellows  was  the  worst  of  all ! 

Thus  stranded,  her  fair  body,  consecrate 

To  holiness,  was  smutched  by  spoilers  rude. 

And  entered  all  the  seven  fiends  where  late 
Abode  a  seeming  angel,  pure  and  good. 

What  paths  she  followed  in  such  woeful  state, 
By  want,  remorse,  and  the  world's  hate  pursued, 

Were  known  alone  to  them  whose  spacious  ken 

O'erlooks  not  even  the  poor  Magdalen. 

After  black  years  their  dismal  change  had  wrought 
Upon  her  beauty,  and  there  was  no  stay 

By  which  to  hold,  some  chance  or  yearning  brought 
Her  vagrant  feet  along  the  convent-way ; 

And  half  as  in  a  dream  there  came  a  thought 
(For  years  she  had  not  dared  to  think  or  pray) 

That  moved  her  there  to  bow  her  in  the  dust 

And  bear  no  more,  but  perish  as  she  must. 

Crouched  by  the  gate  she  waited,  it  is  told^ 
Brooding  the  past  and  all  of  life  forlorn, 

Nor  dared  to  lift  her  pallid  face  and  old 
Against  the  passer's  pity  or  his  scorn ; 


427 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

And  there  perhance  had  ere  another  morn 

Died  of  her  shame  and  sorrows  manifold, 
But  that  a  portress  bade  her  pass  within 
For  solace  of  her  wretchedness  or  sin. 

To  whom  the  lost  one,  drinking  now  her  fill 

Of  woe  that  wakened  memories  made  more  drear, 

Said,  "  Was  there  not  one  Beatrice,  until 

Some  time  now  gone,  that  was  an  abbess  here  ? " 
"  That  was  ?  "  the  other  said.     "  Is  she  not  still 

The  convent's  head,  and  still  our  mistress  dear? 

Look  !   even  now  she  comes  with  open  hand, 

The  purest,  saintliest  lady  in  the  land  !  " 

And  Beatrice,  uplifting  then  her  eyes, 
Saw  her  own  self  (in  womanhood  divine, 

It  seemed)  draw  nigh,  with  holy  look  and  wise, 
The  aged  portress  leaving  at  a  sign. 

Even  while  she  marvelled  at  that  strange  disguise, 
There  stood  before  her,  radiant,  benign, 

The  blessed  Mother  of  Mercy,  all  aflame 

With  light,  as  if  from  Paradise  she  came  ! 

From  her  most  sacred  lips,  upon  the  ears 

Of  Beatrice,  these  words  of  wonder  fell  : 

u  Daughter,  thy  sins  are  pardoned  ;  dry  thy  tears, 

And  in  this  house  again  my  mercies  tell, 

For,  in  thy  stead,  myself  these  woeful  years 

Have  governed  here  and  borne  thine  office  well. 

Take  back  the  keys  :  save  thee  and  me  alone 

No  one  thy  fall  and  penance  yet  hath  known  !  " 

Even  then,  as  faded  out  that  loveliness, 

The  abbess,  looking  down,  herself  descried 

Clean-robed  and  spotless,  such  as  all  confess 
To  be  a  saint  and  fit  for  Heaven's  bride. 

428 


ALL    IN   A    LIFETIME 

So  ends  the  legend,  and  ye  well  may  guess 

^  (Who,  being  untempted,  walk  in  thoughtless  pride) 

God  of  his  grace  can  make  the  sinful  pure, 

And  while  earth  lasts  shall  mercy  still  endure. 

ALL   IN   A    LIFETIME 

THOU  shalt  have  sun  and  shower  from  heaven  above, 
Thou  shalt  have  flower  and  thorn  from  earth  below, 

Thine  shall  be  foe  to  hate  and  friend  to  love, 

Pleasures  that  others  gain,  the  ills  they  know, 

And  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Hast  thou  a  golden  day,  a  starlit  night, 

Mirth,  and  music,  and  love  without  alloy  ? 

Leave  no  drop  undrunken  of  thy  delight : 
Sorrow  and  shadow  follow  on  thy  joy. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

What  if  the  battle  end  and  thou  hast  lost  ? 

Others  have  lost  the  battles  thou  hast  won  ; 
Haste  thee,  bind  thy  wounds,  nor  count  the  cost : 

Over  the  field  will  rise  to-morrow's  sun. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Laugh  at  the  braggart  sneer,  the  open  scorn, 

'Ware  of  the  secret  stab,  the  slanderous  lie  : 

For  seventy  years  of  turmoil  thou  wast  born, 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thine  till  these  go  by. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Reckon  thy  voyage  well,  and  spread  the  sail, 

Wind  and  calm  and  current  shall  warp  thy  way  ; 
Compass  shall  set  thee  false,  and  chart  shall  fail ; 
Ever  the  waves  will  use  thee  for  their  play. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 
429 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Thousands  of  years  agone  were  chance  and  change, 
Thousands  of  ages  hence  the  same  shall  be ; 

Naught  of  thy  joy  and  grief  is  new  or  strange  : 
Gather  apace  the  good  that  falls  to  thee  ! 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime  ! 

THE   SKULL    IN    THE    GOLD    DRIFT 

WHAT  ho  !   dumb  jester,  cease  to  grin  and  mask  it  ! 

Grim  courier,  thou  hast  stayed  upon  the  road  ! 
Yield  up  the  secret  of  this  battered  casket, 

Th'is  shard,  where  once  a  living  soul  abode  ! 
What  dost  thou  here  ?  how  long  hast  lain  imbedded 

In  crystal  sands,  the  drift  of  Time's  despair ; 
Thine  earth  to  earth  with  aureate  dower  wedded, 

Thy  parts  all  changed  to  something  rich  and  rare  ? 

Voiceless  thou  art,  and  yet  a  revelation 

Of  that  most  ancient  world  beneath  the  new ; 
But  who  shall  guess  thy  race,  thy  name  and  station, 

/Eons  and  aeons  ere  these  bowlders  grew  ? 
What  alchemy  can  make  thy  visage  liker 

Its  untransmuted  shape,  thy  flesh  restore, 
Resolve  to  blood  again  thy  golden  ichor, 

Possess  thee  of  the  life  thou  hadst  before  ? 

Before  !  And  when  ?   What  ages  immemorial 

Have  passed  since  daylight  fell  where  thou  dost  sleep ! 
What  molten  strata,  ay,  and  flotsam  boreal, 

Have  shielded  well  thy  rest,  and  pressed  thee  deep ! 
Thou  little  wist  what  mighty  floods  descended, 

How  sprawled  the  armored  monsters  in  their  camp, 
Nor  heardest,  when  the  watery  cyle  ended, 

The  mastodon  and  mammoth  o'er  thee  tramp. 

How  seemed  this  globe  of  ours  when  thou  didst  scan  it  ? 
When,  in  its  lusty  youth,  there  sprang  to  birth 
43° 


THE   SKULL   IN   THE    GOLD    DRIFT 

All  that  has  life,  unnurtured,  and  the  planet 
Was  paradise,  the  true  Saturnian  Earth  ! 

Far  toward  the  poles  was  stretched  the  happy  garden ; 
Earth  kept  it  fair  by  warmth  from  her  own  breast ; 

Toil  had  not  come  to  dwarf  her  sons  and  harden  ; 
No  crime  (there  was  no  want)  perturbed  their  rest. 

How  lived  thy  kind  ?   Was  there  no  duty  blended 

With  all  their  toilless  joy,  —  no  grand  desire? 
Perchance  as  shepherds  on  the  meads  they  tended 

Their  flocks,  and  knew  the  pastoral  pipe  and  lyre ; 
Until  a  hundred  happy  generations, 

Whose  birth  and  death  had  neither  pain  nor  fear, 
At  last,  in  riper  ages,  brought  the  nations 

To  modes  which  we  renew  who  greet  thee  here. 

How  stately  then  they  built  their  royal  cities, 

With  what  strong  engines  speeded  to  and  fro; 
What  music  thrilled  their  souls ;   what  poets'  ditties 

Made  youth  with  love,  and  age  with  honor  glow  ! 
And  had  they  then  their  Homer,  Kepler,  Bacon  ? 

Did  some  Columbus  find  an  unknown  clime  ? 
Was  there  an  archetypal  Christ,  forsaken 

Of  those  he  died  to  save,  in  that  far  time  ? 

When  came  the  end  ?   What  terrible  convulsion 

Heaved  from  within  the  Earth's  distended  shell  ? 
What  pent-up  demons,  by  their  fierce  repulsion, 

Made  of  that  sun-lit  crust  a  sunless  hell  ? 
How,  when  the  hour  was  ripe,  those  deathful  forces 

In  one  resistless  doom  o'erwhelmed  ye  all ; 
Ingulfed  the  seas  and  dried  the  river  courses, 

And  made  the  forests  and  the  cities  fall ! 

Ah  me  !   with  what  a  sudden,  dreadful  thunder 

The  whole  round  world  was  split  from  pole  to  pole  ! 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Down  sank  the  continents,  the  waters  under, 
And  fire  burst  forth  where  now  the  oceans  roll ; 

Of  those  wan  flames  the  dismal  exhalations 
Stifled,  anon,  each  living  creature's  breath, 

Dear  life  was  driven  from  its  utmost  stations, 
And  seethed  beneath  the  smoking  pall  of  death  ! 

Then  brawling  leapt  full  height  yon  helmed  giants ; 

The  proud  Sierras  on  the  skies  laid  hold ; 
Their  watch  and  ward  have  bidden  time  defiance, 

Guarding  thy  grave  amid  the  sands  of  gold. 
Thy  kind  was  then  no  more  !   What  untold  ages, 

Ere  Man,  renewed  from  earth  by  slow  degrees, 
Woke  to  the  strife  he  now  with  Nature  wages 

O'er  ruder  lands  and  more  tempestuous  seas. 

How  poor  the  gold,  that  made  thy  burial  splendid, 

Beside  one  single  annal  of  thy  race, 
One  implement,  one  fragment  that  attended 

Thy  life  —  which  now  has  left  not  even  a  trace  ! 
From  the  soul's  realm  awhile  recall  thy  spirit, 

See  how  the  land  is  spread,  how  flows  the  main, 
The  tribes  that  in  thy  stead  the  globe  inherit, 

Their  grand  unrest,  their  eager  joy  and  pain. 

Beneath  our  feet  a  thousand  ages  moulder, 

Grayer  our  skies  than  thine,  the  winds  more  chill ; 
Thine  the  young  world,  and  ours  the  hoarier,  colder, 

But  Man's  unfaltering  heart  is  dauntless  still. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  like  thine  his  solemn  story; 

Grope  where  he  will,  transition  lies  before ; 
We,  too,  must  pass  !  our  wisdom,  works,  and  glory 

In  turn  shall  yield,  and  change,  and  be  no  more. 


432 


WITH    A    SPRIG    OF    HEATHER 
WITH    A    SPRIG    OF    HEATHER 

TO  THE  LADY  WHO  SENT  ME  A  JAR  OF  HYMETTIAN  HONEY 

LADY,  had  the  lot  been  mine 
That  befell  the  sage  divine, 
Near  Hymettus  to  be  bred, 
And  in  sleep  on  honey  fed, 
I  would  send  to  you,  be  sure, 
Rhythmic  verses  —  tuneful,  pure, 
Such  as  flowed  when  Greece  was  young 
And  the  Attic  songs  were  sung ; 
I  would  take  your  little  jar, 
Filled  with  sweetness  from  afar,  — 
Brown  as  amber,  bright  as  gold, 
Breathing  odors  manifold, — 
And  would  thank  you,  sip  by  sip, 
With  the  classic  honeyed  lip. 
But  the  gods  did  not  befriend 
Me  in  childhood's  sleep,  nor  send, 
One  by  one,  their  laden  bees, 
That  I  now  might  sing  at  ease 
With  the  winsome  voice  and  word 
In  this  age  too  seldom  heard. 
(Had  they  the  Atlantic  crost, 
Half  their  treasure  had  been  lost !) 
Changed  the  time  and  gone  the  art 
Of  the  glad  Athenian  heart. 
Take  you,  then,  in  turn,  I  pray, 
For  your  gift,  this  little  spray,  — 
Heather  from  a  breezy  hill 
That  of  Burns  doth  whisper  still. 
On  the  soil  where  this  was  bred 
The  rapt  ploughman  laid  his  head, 
Sang,  and  looking  to  the  sky 
Saw  the  Muses  hovering  nigh. 
433 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

From  the  air  and  from  the  gorse 
Scotland's  sweetness  took  its  source ;  — 
Precious  still  your  jar,  you  see,     . 
Though  its  honey  stays  with  me. 


MUSIC   AT   HOME 

I  SAT  beneath  a  fragrant  tasselled  tree, 

Whose  trunk  encoiling  vines  had  made  to  be 

A  glossy  fount  of  leafage.    Sweet  the  air, 

Far-off  the  smoke-veiled  city  and  its  care, 

Precious  and  near  the  book  within  my  hand  — 

The  deathless  song  of  that  immortal  land 

Wherefrom  Keats  took  his  young  Endymion 

And  laurelled  bards  enow  their  wreaths  have  won ;  - 

When  from  some  topmost  spray  began  to  chant 

And  flute,  and  trill,  a  warbling  visitant, 

A  catbird,  riotous  the  world  above, 

Hasting  to  spend  his  heritage  ere  love 

Should  music  change  to  madness  in  his  throat, 

Leaving  him  naught  but  one  discordant  note. 

And  as  my  home-bred  chorister  outvied 

The  nightingale,  old  England's  lark  beside, 

I  thought  —  What  need  to  borrow  ?    Lustier  clime 

Than  ours  Earth  has  not, —  nor  her  scroll  a  time 

Ampler  of  human  glory  and  desire 

To  touch  the  plume,  the  brush,  the  lips,  with  fire; 

No  sunrise  chant  on  ancient  shore  and  sea, 

Since  sang  the  morning  stars,  more  worth  shall  be 

Than  ours,  once  uttered  from  the  very  heart 

Of  the  glad  race  that  here  shall  act  its  part. 

Blithe  prodigal,  the  rhythm  free  and  strong 

Of  thy  brave  voice  forecasts  our  poet's  song  ! 


434 


THE    HAND    OF    LINCOLN 


THE    HAND    OF    LINCOLN 

LOOK  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold  : 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was,  —  how  large  of  mould 

The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  ploughman's  share, 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 

This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 

The  axe  —  since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son  —  and  made  the  forest  ring, 
And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 

Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swayed. 

No  courtier's,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute  ; 

A  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute ! 

The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong, 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch ; 

Yet,  lo  !  the  marks  their  lines  along 
Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 

For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years ; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas  —  and  the  tears. 
435 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Again  I  see  the  patient  brow 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press ; 
And  now  't  is  furrowed  deep,  and  now 

Made  smooth  with  hope  and  tenderness. 

For  something  of  a  formless  grace 
This  moulded  outline  plays  about ; 

A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 
Breathes  like  a  spirit,  in  and  out,  — 

The  love  that  cast  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 

Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears : 

A  type  that  Nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  all  a  people's  years. 

What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 

To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 
Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 
The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free  ! 
1883. 


Y*  TOMB    OF   YE  POET    CHAUCER" 

ABBOT  and  monks  of  Westminster 

Here  placed  his  tomb,  in  all  men's  view. 
"  Our  Chaucer  dead  ?  "  —  King  Harry  said, — 
"  A  mass  for  him,  and  burial  due  !  " 
This  very  aisle  his  footsteps  knew ; 
Here  Gower's  benediction  fell, — 

Brother  thou  were  and  minstral  trewe  ,- 
Now  slepe  thou  wel. 

436 


YE    TOMB    OF    YE    POET    CHAUCER 

There  died  with  that  old  century's  death, 

I  wot,  five  hundred  years  ago, 
One  whose  blithe  heart,  whose  morning  art, 

Made  England's  Castaly  to  flow. 

He  in  whose  song  that  fount  we  know, 
With  every  tale  the  skylarks  tell, 

Had  right,  Saint  Bennet's  wall  below 
To  slumber  well. 

Eftsoons  his  master  piously 

In  Surrey  hied  him  to  his  rest ; 
The  Thames,  between  their  closes  green, 

Parted  these  warblers  breast  from  breast, — 

The  gravest  from  the  joyfulest 
Whose  notes  the  matin  chorus  swell : 

A  league  divided,  east  and  west, 
They  slumber  well. 

Is  there  no  care  in  holy  ground 

The  world's  deep  undertone  to  hear  ? 
Can  this  strong  sleep  our  Chaucer  keep 

When  May-time  buds  and  blossoms  peer  ? 

Less  strange  that  many  a  sceptred  year, 
While  the  twin  houses  towered  and  fell, 

Alike  through  England's  pride  and  fear, 
He  slumbered  well. 

The  envious  Roses  woefully 

By  turns  a  bleeding  kingdom  sway ; 
Thrones  topple  down,  —  to  robe  and  crown 

Who  comes  at  last  must  hew  his  way. 

No  sound  of  all  that  piteous  fray, 
Nor  of  its  ceasing,  breaks  the  spell ; 

Still  on,  to  great  Eliza's  day, 
He  slumbers  well. 


437 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Methinks,  had  Shakespeare  lightly  walked 

Anear  him  in  the  minster  old, 
He  would  have  heard, —  his  sleep  had  stirred 

With  dreams  of  wonders  manifold  ; 

Even  though  no  sad  vibration  told 
His  ear  when  sounded  Mary's  knell, — 

Though,  when  the  mask  on  Charles  laid  hold, 
He  slumbered  well. 

In  climes  beyond  his  calendar 

The  latest  century's  splendors  grow ; 
London  is  great,  —  the  Abbey's  state 

A  young  world's  eager  wanderers  know ; 

New  songs,  new  minstrels,  come  and  go ; 
Naught  as  of  old  outside  his  cell,  — 

Just  as  of  old,  within  it  low, 
He  slumbers  well. 

And  now,  when  hawthorn  is  in  flower, 
And  throstles  sing  as  once  sang  he, 

In  this  last  age,  on  pilgrimage 

Like  mine  from  lands  that  distant  be, 
Come  youths  and  maidens,  summer-free, 

Where  shades  of  bards  and  warriors  dwell, 
And  say,  "  The  sire  of  minstrelsy 
Here  slumbers  well  "  ; 

And  say,  "  While  London's  Abbey  stands 

No  less  shall  England's  strength  endure  !  " 
Ay,  though  its  old  wall  crumbling  fall, 
Shall  last  her  song's  sweet  overture ; 
Some  purling  stream  shall  flow,  be  sure, 
From  out  the  ivied  heap,  to  tell 

That  here  the  fount  of  English  pure 

Long  slumbered  well. 
1879. 

438 


THE    CONSTANT    HEART 


THE    CONSTANT    HEART 

SADDE  songe  is  out  of  season 

When  birdes  and  lovers  mate, 
When  soule  to  soule  must  paye  swete  toll 

And  fate  be  joyned  with  fate ; 
Sadde  songe  and  wofull  thought  controle 

This  constant  heart  of  myne, 
And  make  newe  love  a  treason 

Unto  my  Valentine. 

How  shall  my  wan  lippes  utter 

Their  summons  to  the  dedde, — 
Where  nowe  repeate  the  promise  swete, 

So  farre  my  love  hath  fledd  ? 
My  only  love !   What  musicke  fleet 

Shall  crosse  the  walle  that  barres  ? 
To  earthe  the  burthen  mutter, 

Or  singe  it  to  the  Starrs  ? 

Perchance  she  dwelles  a  spirite 

In  beautye  undestroyed 
Where  brightest  Starrs  are  closely  sett 

Farre  out  beyonde  the  voyd ; 
If  Margaret  be  risen  yet 

Her  looke  will  hither  turne, 
I  knowe  that  she  will  heare  it, 

And  all  my  trewe  heart  learne. 

But  if  no  resurrection 

Unseale  her  dwellinge  lowe 
If  one  so  fayre  must  bide  her  there 

Until  the  trumpe  shall  blowe, 
Nathlesse  shall  Love  outvie  Despaire, 

(Whilst  constant  heart  is  myne) 

439 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

And,  robbed  of  her  perfection, 
Be  faithfull  to  her  shrine. 

At  this  blythe  season  bending 

He  whisper  to  the  clodde, 
To  the  chill  grasse  where  shadowes  passe 

And  leaflesse  branches  nodde ; 
There  keepe  my  watche,  and  crye  —  Alas 

That  Love  may  not  forget, 
That  Joye  must  have  swifte  ending 

And  Life  be  laggard  yet ! 
1881. 


THE   WORLD    WELL    LOST 

THAT  year  ?  Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  still,  — 

Though  why  take  count  of  every  wind  that  blows  ! 

'T  was  plain,  men  said,  that  Fortune  used  me  ill 
That  year,  —  the  selfsame  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Crops  failed ;  wealth  took  a  flight ;  house,  treasure,  land, 
Slipped  from  my  hold  —  thus  plenty  comes  and  goes. 

One  friend  I  had,  but  he  too  loosed  his  hand 
(Or  was  it  I  ?)  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

There  was  a  war,  I  think ;   some  rumor,  too, 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  fire,  deluge,  snows  ; 

Things  went  awry.    My  rivals,  straight  in  view, 
Throve,  spite  of  all ;   but  I, —  I  met  with  Rose. 

That  year  my  white-faced  Alma  pined  and  died  : 

Some  trouble  vexed  her  quiet  heart, —  who  knows? 

Not  I,  who  scarcely  missed  her  from  my  side, 
Or  aught  else  gone,  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 


44° 


HEBE 

Was  there  no  more  ?  Yes,  that  year  life  began  : 
All  life  before  a  dream,  false  joys,  light  woes, — 

All  after-life  compressed  within  the  span 

Of  that  one  year,  —  the  year  I  met  with  Rose  ! 

1883. 

HEBE 

SEE,  what  a  beauty !   Half-shut  eyes,  — 

Hide  all  buff,  and  without  a  break 
To  the  tail's  brown  tuft  that  mostly  lies, 

So  quiet  one  thinks  her  scarce  awake ; 
But  pass  too  near,  one  step  too  free, 

You  find  her  slumber  a  devil's  truce  : 
Up  comes  that  paw,  —  all  plush,  you  see, — 

Out  four  claws,  fit  for  Satan's  use. 

'Ware  !  Just  a  sleeve's  breadth  closer  then, 

And  your  last  appearance  on  any  stage  ! 
Loll,  if  you  like,  by  Daniel's  Den, 

But  clear  and  away  from  Hebe's  cage  :  — 
That 's  Hebe  !  listen  to  that  purr, 

Rumbling  as  from  the  ground  below  : 
Strange,  when  the  ring  begins  to  stir, 

The  fleshings  always  vex  her  so. 

You  think  't  were  a  rougher  task  by  far 

To  tame  her  mate  with  the  sooty  mane  ? 
A  splendid  bronze  for  a  showman's  car, 

And  listless  enough  for  bit  and  rein. 
But  Hebe  is  — just  like  all  her  sex  — 

Not  good,  then  bad,  —  be  sure  of  that  : 
In  either  case  't  would  a  sage  perplex 

To  make  them  out,  both  woman  and  cat. 

A  curious  record,  Hebe's.   Reared 
In  Italy  ;   age,  —  that  's  hard  to  fix  ; 
441 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Trained  from  a  cub,  until  she  feared 

The  lash,  and  learned  her  round  of  tricks ; 

Always  a  traveller,  —  one  of  two 
A  woman-tamer  took  in  hand, 

Whipped  them,  coaxed  them,  —  and  so  they  grew 
To  fawn  or  cower  at  her  command. 

None  but  Fiorina  —  that  was  her  name 

And  this  the  story  of  Hebe  here  — 
Entered  their  cage;  the  brutes  were  tame 

As  kittens,  though,  their  mistress  near. 
A  tall,  proud  wench  as  ever  was  seen, 

Supple  and  handsome,  full  of  grace  : 
The  world  would  bow  to  a  real  queen 

That  had  Fiorina's  form  and  face. 

Her  lover  —  for  one  she  had,  of  course  — 

Was  Marco,  acrobat,  circus-star, 
The  lightest  foot  on  a  running  horse, 

The  surest  leap  from  a  swinging  bar ; 
And  she, —  so  jealous  he  dared  not  touch 

A  woman's  hand,  and,  truth  to  say, 
He  had  no  humor  to  tease  her  much 

Till  a  girl  in  spangles  crossed  their  way. 

JT  was  at  Marseilles,  the  final  scene  : 

This  pretty  rider  joined  the  ring, 
Ma'am'selle  Celeste  or  Victorine, 

And  captured  him  under  Fiorina's  wing. 
They  hid  their  meetings,  but  when,  you  see, 

Doubt  holds  the  candle,  love  will  show, 
And  in  love's  division  the  one  of  three, 

Whose  share  is  lessened,  needs  must  know. 

One  night,  then,  after  the  throng  outpoured 

From  the  show,  and  the  lions  my  Lady's  power 


442 


HEBE 

Had  been  made  to  feel,  with  lash  that  scored 
And  eye  that  cowed  them,  a  snarling  hour ;  — 

(They  were  just  in  the  mood  for  pleasantry 
Of  those  holidays  when  saints  were  thrown 

To  beasts,  and  the  Romans,  entrance-free, 

Clapped  hands ;)  —  that  night,  as  she  stood  alone, 

Fiorina,  Queen  of  the  Lions,  called 

Sir  Marco  toward  her,  while  her  hand 
Still  touched  the  spring  of  a  door  that  walled 

Her  subjects  safe  within  Lion-land. 
He  came  there  panting,  hot  from  the  ring, 

So  brave  a  figure  that  one  might  know 
Among  all  his  tribe  he  must  be  king,  — 

If  in  some  wild  tract  you  met  him  so. 

"Do  you  love  me  still,"  she  asked,  '.'as  when 

You  swore  it  first  ?  "  "  Have  never  a  doubt !  " 
"  But  I  have  a  fancy  —  men  are  men, 

And  one  whim  drives  another  out,"  — 
"  What  fancy  ?   Is  this  all  ?   Have  done  : 

You  tire  me."  "  Look  you,  Marco  !   oh, 
I  should  die  if  another  woman  won 

Your  love,  —  but  would  kill  you  first,  you  know  ! 

"  Kill  me  ?  and  how,  —  with  a  jealous  tongue  ?  " 

"  THUS  !  "  quoth  Fiorina,  and  slipped  the  bolt 
Of  the  cage's  door,  and  headlong  flung 

Sir  Marco,  ere  he  could  breathe,  the  dolt ! 
Plump  on  the  lion  he  bounced,  and  fell 

Beyond,  and  Hebe  leapt  for  him  there, — 
No  need  for  their  lady's  voice  to  tell 

The  work  in  hand  for  that  ready  pair. 

They  say  one  would  n't  have  cared  to  see 
The  group  commingled,  man  and  beast, 


443 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Or  to  hear  the  shrieks  and  roars,  —  all  three 
One  red,  the  feasters  and  the  feast ! 

Guns,  pistols,  blazed,  till  the  lion  sprawled, 
Shot  dead,  but  Hebe  held  to  her  prey 

And  drank  his  blood,  while  keepers  bawled 
And  their  hot  irons  made  yon  scars  that  day. 

But  the  woman  ?  True,  I  had  forgot  : 

She  never  flinched  at  the  havoc  made, 
Nor  gave  one  cry,  but  there  on  the  spot 

Drove  to  the  heart  her  poniard-blade, 
Straight,  like  a  man,  and  fell,  nor  stirred 

Again  ;  —  so  that  fine  pair  were  dead  ; 
One  lied,  and  the  other  kept  her  word,  — 

And  death  pays  debts,  when  all  is  said. 

So  they  hustled  Hebe  out  of  France, 

To  Spain,  or  may  be  to  England  first, 
Then  hitherward  over  seas,  by  chance, 

She  came  as  you  see  her,  always  athirst,  — 
As  if,  like  the  tigresses  that  slink 

In  the  village  canes  of  Hindostan, 
Of  one  rare  draught  she  loves  to  think, 

And  ever  to  get  it  must  plan  and  plan. 

1884. 

SOUVENIR   DE   JEUNESSE 

WHEN  Sibyl  kept  her  tryst  with  me,  the  harvest  moon  was 

rounded 
In  evening  hush  through  pathways  lush  with  fern  we 

reached  the  glade ; 

The  rippling  river  soft  and  low  with  fairy  plashes  sounded, 
The  silver  poplar  rustled  as  we  sat  within  its  shade. 


444 


A   VIGIL 

u  And  why,"  she  whispered,  "  evermore  should  lovers  meet 

to  sunder  ? 

Where  stars  arise  in  other  skies  let  other  lips  than  mine 
Their   sorrows   lisp,   and   other   hearts   at   love's   delaying 

wonder  — 

O  stay !  "  —  and  soon  her  tearful  eyes  were  each  a  pearly 
shrine. 

I  soothed  her  fears  and  stayed  her  tears,  her  hands  in  mine 

enfolding, 
And  then  we  cared  no  more  for  aught  save  this  one  hour 

we  had ; 
Upwelled  that  dreamful  selfish  tide  of  young  Love's  rapture, 

holding 

The  fair  round  world  itself  in  pledge  to  make  us  still  more 
glad. 

For  us  the  night  was  musical,  for  us  the  meadows  shining; 
The  summer  air  was  odorous  that  we  might  breathe  and 

love ; 

Sweet  Nature  throbbed  for  us  alone  —  her  mother-soul  di 
vining 

No    fonder  pair  that  fleeting   hour  her  zephyrs    sighed 
above. 

Amid  the  nodding  rushes  the  heron  drank  his  tipple, 

The  night-hawk's  cry  and  whir  anigh   a  deeper  stillness 

made, 

A  thousand  little  starlights  danced  upon  the  river's  ripple, 
And   the   silver  poplar  rustled   as   we  kissed   within   its 

shade. 
1884. 

A   VIGIL 

I  WALK  the  lane's  dim  hollow, — 
Past  is  the  twilight  hour, 

445 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

But  stealthy  shadows  follow 

And  Night  withholds  her  power, 
For  somewhere  in  the  eastern  sky 

The  shrouded  moon  is  high. 

Dews  from  the  wild  rose  drip  unheard,  — 

Their  unforgotten  scent 
With  that  of  woods  and  grasses  blent ; 

No  muffled  flight  of  bird, 
No  whispering  voice,  my  footfall  stops ; 
No  breeze  amid  the  poplar-tops 

The  smallest  leaf  has  stirred. 

Yet  round  me,  here  and  there, 

A  little  fluttering  wind 
Plays  now,  —  these  senses  have  divined 

A  breath  across  my  hair, — 
A  touch,  —  that  on  my  forehead  lies, 

And  presses  long 
These  lips  so  mute  of  song, 
And  now,  with  kisses  cool,  my  half-shut  eyes. 

This  night  ?   O  what  is  here  ! 
What  viewless  aura  clings 
So  fitfully,  so  near, 
On  this  returning  eventide 
When  Memory  will  not  be  denied 
Unfettered  wings  ? 

My  arms  reach  out,  —  in  vain, — 

They  fold  the  air : 

And  yet  —  that  wandering  breath  again ! 
Too  vague  to  make  her  phantom  plain, 

Too  tender  for  despair. 
1884. 


446 


THE    STAR    BEARER 


THE    STAR    BEARER 

THERE  were  seven  angels  erst  that  spanned 

Heaven's  roadway  out  through  space, 
Lighting  with  stars,  by  God's  command, 

The  fringe  of  that  high  place 
Whence  plumed  beings  in  their  joy, 
The  servitors  His  thoughts  employ, 
Fly  ceaselessly.    No  goodlier  band 
Looked  upward  to  His  face. 

There,  on  bright  hovering  wings  that  tire 

Never,  they  rested  mute, 
Nor  of  far  journeys  had  desire, 

Nor  of  the  deathless  fruit ; 
For  in  and  through  each  angel  soul 
All  waves  of  life  and  knowledge  roll, 
Even  as  to  nadir  streamed  the  fire 
Of  their  torches  resolute. 

They  lighted  Michael's  outpost  through 

Where  fly  the  armored  brood, 
And  the  wintry  Earth  their  omens  knew 

Of  Spring's  beatitude  ; 
Rude  folk,  ere  yet  the  promise  came, 
Gave  to  their  orbs  a  heathen  name, 
Saying  how  steadfast  in  men's  view 
The  watchful  Pleiads  stood. 

All  in  the  solstice  of  the  year, 

When  the  sun  apace  must  turn, 
The  seven  bright  angels  'gan  to  hear 

Heaven's  twin  gates  outward  yearn  : 
Forth  with  its  light  and  minstrelsy 
A  lordly  troop  came  speeding  by, 

447 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

And  joyed  to  see  each  cresset  sphere 
So  gloriously  burn. 

Staying  his  fearless  passage  then 

The  Captain  of  that  host 
Spake  with  strong  voice  :  "  We  bear  to  men 

God's  gift  the  uttermost, 
Whereof  the  oracle  and  sign 
Sibyl  and  sages  may  divine  : 

A  star  shall  blazon  in  their  ken, 
Borne  with  us  from  your  post. 

"  This  night  the  Heir  of  Heaven's  throne 

A  new-born  mortal  lies ! 
Since  Earth's  first  morning  hath  not  shone 

Such  joy  in  seraph  eyes." 
He  spake.    The  least  in  honor  there 
Answered  with  longing  like  a  prayer, — 
u  My  star,  albeit  thenceforth  unknown, 
Shall  light  for  you  Earth's  skies." 

Onward  the  blessed  legion  swept, 

That  angel  at  the  head ; 
(Where  seven  of  old  their  station  kept 

There  are  six  that  shine  instead.) 
Straight  hitherward  came  troop  and  star  j 
Like  some  celestial  bird  afar 

Into  Earth's  night  the  cohort  leapt 
With  beauteous  wings  outspread. 

Dazzling  the  East  beneath  it  there, 

The  Star  gave  out  its  rays  : 
Right  through  the  still  Judean  air 

The  shepherds  see  it  blaze,— 
They  see  the  plume-borne  heavenly  throng, 
And  hear  a  burst  of  that  high  song 

448 


EVENTIDE 

Of  which  in  Paradise  aware 

Saints  count  their  years  but  days. 

For  they  sang  such  music  as,  I  deem, 

In  God's  chief  court  of  joys, 
Had  stayed  the  flow  of  the  crystal  stream 

And  made  souls  in  mid-flight  poise  ; 
They  sang  of  Glory  to  Him  most  High, 
Of  Peace  on  Earth  abidingly, 

And  of  all  delights  the  which,  men  dream, 
Nor  sin  nor  grief  alloys. 

Breathless  the  kneeling  shepherds  heard, 

Charmed  from  their  first  rude  fear, 
Nor  while  that  music  dwelt  had  stirred 

Were  it  a  month  or  year : 
And  Mary  Mother  drank  its  flow, 
Couched  with  her  Babe  divine,  —  and,  lo  ! 
Ere  falls  the  last  ecstatic  word 
Three  Holy  Kings  draw  near. 

Whenas  the  star-led  shining  train 

Wheeled  from  their  task  complete, 
Skyward  from  over  Bethlehem's  plain 

They  sped  with  rapture  fleet  ; 
And  the  angel  of  that  orient  star, 
Thenceforth  where  Heaven's  lordliest  are, 
Stands  with  a  harp,  while  Christ  doth  reign, 

A  seraph  near  His  feet. 
1887. 

EVENTIDE 

THE  sunset  fires  old  Portsmouth  spires, 
Out  creeps  the  ebbing  tide ; 

Beyond  the  battery-point  I  see 
A  glimmering  schooner  glide  ; 
449 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

White  flares  the  turning  Whale-back  light, 

The  silent  ground-swell  rolls ; 
Low  and  afar  shines  one  red  star 

Above  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
lift. 

HELEN    KELLER 

MUTE,  sightless  visitant, 
From  what  uncharted  world 
Hast  voyaged  into  Life's  rude  sea, 

With  guidance  scant ; 
As  if  some  bark  mysteriously 
Should  hither  glide,  with  spars  aslant 
And  sails  all  furled  ? 

In  what  perpetual  dawn, 
Child  of  the  spotless  brow, 
Hast  kept  thy  spirit  far  withdrawn  — 

Thy  birthright  undefiled  ? 
What  views  to  thy  sealed  eyes  appear  ? 
What  voices  mayst  thou  hear 
Speak  as  we  know  not  how  ? 
Of  grief  and  sin  hast  thou, 

O  radiant  child, 

Even  thou,  a  share  ?    Can  mortal  taint 
Have  power  on  thee  unfearing 
The  woes  our  sight,  our  hearing, 
Learn  from  Earth's  crime  and  plaint  ? 

Not  as  we  see 

Earth,  sky,  insensate  forms,  ourselves, 
Thou  seest,  —  but  vision-free 
Thy  fancy  soars  and  delves, 
Albeit  no  sounds  to  us  relate 
The  wondrous  things 
Thy  brave  imaginings 
Within  their  starry  night  create. 
450 


PORTRAIT   D'UNE   DAME  ESPAGNOLE 

Pity  thy  unconfined 
Clear  spirit,  whose  enfranchised  eyes 

Use  not  their  grosser  sense  ? 
Ah,  no  !  thy  bright  intelligence 

Hath  its  own  Paradise, 
A  realm  wherein  to  hear  and  see 

Things  hidden  from  our  kind. 

Not  thou,  not  thou  —  't  is  we 

Are  deaf,  are  dumb,  are  blind  ! 


PORTRAIT    D'UNE   DAME   ESPAGNOLE 

(FORTUNY) 

THE  hand  that  drew  thee  lies  in  Roman  soil, 

Whilst  on  the  canvas  thou  hast  deathless  grown, 

Endued  by  him  who  deemed  it  meaner  toil 
To  give  the  world  a  portrait  save  thine  own. 

Yet  had  he  found  thy  peer,  and  Rome  forborne 

Such  envy  of  his  conquest  over  Time, 
Beauty  had  waked,  and  Art  another  morn 

Had  gained,  and  ceased  to  sorrow  for  her  prime. 

What  spirit  was  it  —  where  the  masters  are  — 
Brooding  the  gloom  and  glory  that  were  Spain, 

Through  centuries  waited  in  its  orb  afar 

Until  our  age  Fortuny's  brush  should  gain  ? 

What  stroke  but  his  who  pictured  in  their  state 
Queen,  beggar,  noble,  Philip's  princely  brood, 

Could  thus  the  boast  of  Seville  recreate, 

Even  when  one  like  thee  before  him  stood  ? 

Like  thee,  own  child  of  Spain,  whose  beauteous  pride, 
Desire,  disdain,  all  sins  thy  mien  express, 
451 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Should  need  no  absolution  —  hadst  thou  died 
Unhouselled,  in  their  imaged  loveliness. 

All  this  had  Fate  decreed,  —  the  antique  skill, 
The  halt,  the  poise,  the  long  auspicious  day, — 

Yielding  this  once,  thy  triumph  to  fulfil, 
Velasquez'  sceptre  to  Fortuny's  sway. 

Shine  from  thy  cloud  of  night,  fair  star,  nor  fear 

Oblivion,  though  men  thy  dust  inurn, 
For  who  may  bid  thy  counterpart  appear 

Until  the  hand  that  drew  thee  shall  return  ! 
1889. 

HAREBELL 

A    REPARATION 

"  GRANT  him,"  I  said,  "  a  well-earned  name, 

The  stage's  knight,  the  keen  assayer 
Of  parts  whence  all  save  greatness  came, 
But  —  not  a  player. 

"  Strange,  as  of  fate's  perverseness,  this 

Proud,  eager  soul,  this  fine-strung  creature 
Should  seem  forever  just  to  miss 
That  touch  of  nature  ; 

"  The  instinct  she  so  lightly  gives 

Some  fellow  at  his  rivals  snarling, 
Some  churl  who  gains  the  boards,  and  lives 
Transformed  —  her  darling  !  " 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  he  replied.  "  Well,  I 

Thought  likewise,  maugre  Lanciotto, 
And  Yorick,  though  his  Cassius  nigh 
Won  Hamlet's  motto. 
452 


HAREBELL 

"  But  would  you  learn,  as  I,  his  clew 

To  nature's  heart,  and  judge  him  fairly  — 
Go  see  his  rustic  bard,  go  view 
His  Man  o'  Airlie. 

"  See  that  defenceless  minstrel  brought 

From  hope  to  wan  despair,  from  laughter 
To  frenzy's  moan  :   the  image  wrought 
Will  haunt  you  after. 

"  Then  see  him  crowned  at  last !   If  such 

A  guerdon  waits  the  stricken  poet, 
'T  were  well,  you  '11  own,  to  bear  as  much  — 
Even  die,  to  know  it." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  I,  "  I  too,  the  thrill 

Must  feel  which  thus  your  blood  can  waken." 
And  once  I  saw  upon  the  bill 
That  part  retaken  ; 

But  leagues  of  travel  stretched  between 

Me  and  that  idyl  played  so  rarely  : 
And  then  —  his  death  !  nor  had  I  seen 
"  The  Man  o'  Airlie." 

My  failure  ;  not  the  actor's,  loved 

By  all  to  art  and  nature  loyal ; 
Not  his,  whom  Harebell's  passion  proved 

Of  the  blood  royal. 
1891. 


453 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

PROEM    TO    A   VICTORIAN 
ANTHOLOGY 

ENGLAND  !   since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day 
For  thee  than  lights  herewith  a  century's  goal, — 
Nor  statelier  exit  of  heroic  soul 

Conjoined  with  soul  heroic,  —  nor  a  lay 

Excelling  theirs  who  made  renowned  thy  sway 
Even  as  they  heard  the  billows  which  outroll 
Thine  ancient  sea,  and  left  their  joy  and  dole 

In  song,  and  on  the  strand  their  mantles  gray. 

Star-rayed  with  fame  thine  Abbey  windows  loom 
Above  his  dust,  whom  the  Venetian  barge 
Bore  to  the  main ;  who  passed  the  twofold  marge 

To  slumber  in  thy  keeping  —  yet  make  room 
For  the  great  Laurifer,  whose  chanting  large 

And  sweet  shall  last  until  our  tongue's  far  doom. 
1895. 

PROEM    TO   "POEMS    NOW    FIRST 
COLLECTED  " 

THOU,  —  whose  endearing  hand  once  laid  in  sooth 
Upon  thy  follower,  no  want  thenceforth, 
Nor  toil,  nor  joy  and  pain,  nor  waste  of  years 
Filled  with  all  cares  that  deaden  and  subdue, 
Can  make  thee  less  to  him  —  can  make  thee  less 
Than  sovereign  queen,  his  first  liege,  and  his  last 
Remembered  to  the  unconscious  dying  hour, — 
Return  and  be  thou  kind,  bright  Spirit  of  song, 
Thou  whom  I  yet  loved  most,  loved  most  of  all 
Even  when  I  left  thee —  I,  now  so  long  strayed 
From  thy  beholding  !    And  renew,  renew 
Thy  gift  to  me  fain  clinging  to  thy  robe  ! 
Still  be  thou  kind,  for  still  thou  wast  most  dear. 
1897. 

454 


FATHER  JARDINE 
FATHER   JARDINE 

TRINITY  CHURCH,  ST.  LOUIS 

AROUND  his  loins,  when  the  last  breath  had  gone 

From  the  gaunt  frame  —  and  death's  encroaching  mist, 
A  veil  betwixt  earth  left  and  heaven  won, 
Told  naught  of  all  it  wist  — 

Close  to  the  flesh,  sore-lashed  by  waves  of  pain, 

They  found  the  iron  girth  that  ate  his  side, 
Its  links  worn  bright  :  the  cruel,  secret  chain, 
They  found  it  when  he  died. 

Son  of  the  Church,  though  worldlings  spake  her  creed 

And  smiled  askance,  even  in  the  altar  fold, 
This  man,  this  piteous  soul,  believed  indeed 
With  the  stern  faith  of  old. 

Unquestioning  aught,  aye,  in  the  eager  West 

Surcharged  with  life  that  mocks  the  vague  unknown, 
His  ligature  of  anguish  unconfest 
He  wore  alone  —  alone. 

Alone  ?  but  trebly  welded  links  of  fate 

More  lives  than  one  are  bidden  to  endure, 
Forged  in  a  chain's  indissoluble  weight 
Of  agonies  more  sure. 

His  torture  was  self-torture  ;  to  his  soul 

No.  jest  of  time  irrevocably  brought 
A  woe  more  grim  than  underneath  the  stole 
His  gnawing  cincture  wrought. 

Belike  my  garments,  —  yes,  or  thine,  —  conceal 

The  sorer  wound,  the  pitiabler  throe, 
Not  even  the  traitor  Death  shall  quite  reveal 
For  his  rough  mutes  to  know. 
455 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

What  the  heart  hungered  for  and  was  denied, 
Still  foiled  with  guerdons  for  a  world  to  see 
And  envy  it,  —  this  furrows  deep  and  wide 
Its  grooves  in  thee  —  in  me. 

Borne,  always  borne  —  what  martyrdoms  assoil 

The  laden  soul  from  hostile  chance  and  blind  ? 
Nor  time  can  loose  the  adamantine  coil,  t 

Nor  Azrael  unbind. 

Redemption  for  the  priest  !   but  naught  their  gain 
Who  forfeit  still  the  one  thing  asked  of  Earth, 
Knowing  all  penance  light  beside  this  pain  — 

All  pleasure,  nothing  worth. 
1894. 


FIN    DE    SIECLE 

Now  making  exit  to  the  outer  vast 

Our  century  speeds,  and  shall  retain  no  more 

Its  perihelion  splendor,  save  to  cast 

A  search-light  on  the  chartless  course  before. 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  our  kind,  whose  eyes 
Follow  the  spread  of  that  phantasmal  ray ; 

Who  see  as  infants  see,  nor  can  surmise 
Aright  of  what  is  near — what  far  away. 

I  hear  the  jest,  the  threnody,  the  low 

Recount  of  dreams  which  down  the  years  have  fled,  - 
Of  fair  romance  now  shattered  with  love's  bow, 

Of  legend  brought  to  test,  and  passion  dead. 

Dark  Science  broods  in  Fancy's  hermitage, 

The  rainbow  fades, —  and  hushed,  they  say,  is  Song 

With  those  high  bards  who  lingering  charmed  the  age 
Ere  one  by  one  they  joined  the  statued  throng. 
456 


FIN    DE   Sl£CLE 

I  hear  the  dirge  for  beauty  sped,  and  faith 
Astray  in  space  and  time's  far  archways  lost, 

Till  Life  itself  becomes  a  tenuous  wraith, 

A  wandering  shade  whom  .wandering  shades  accost. 

Their  light  sad  plaint  I  hear  who  thus  divine 
The  future,  counselling  that  all  is  done,  — 

Naught  left  for  art's  sweet  touch  —  but  to  refine, 
For  courage  —  but  to  face  the  setting  sun. 

I  hear,  yet  have  no  will  to  falter  so. 

We  seek  out  matter's  alchemy,  and  tame 
Force  to  our  needs,  but  what  shall  make  us  know 

Whether  the  twain  are  parted,  or  the  same  ? 

The  same  !   then  conscious  substance,  fetterless 
The  more  when  most  subdued  to  Will's  control, 

Free  though  in  bonds,  foredestined  to  progress, — 
Ever,  and  ever  still  —  the  soul,  the  soul : 

The  unvexed  spirit,  to  whose  sure  intent 
All  else  is  relative.    Or  large  or  small, 

The  Afrit,  cloud  or  being,  free  or  pent, 
Enshrouds,  impenetrates,  and  masters  all. 

No  grain  of  sand  too  narrow  to  enfold 
The  spirit's  incarnation;   no  vast  land 

And  sea,  but,  readjusted  to  their  mould, 
It  deems  Atlantis  scarce  a  grain  of  sand. 

Time's  intervals  are  ages  ;  planets  sleep 
In  death,  or  blaze  in  living  light  afar ; 

Thought  answers  thought ;  deep  calleth  unto  deep 
Alike  within  the  globule  and  the  star. 

Ay,  even  the  rock-bound  globe,  which  still  doth  feign 

Itself  inanimate,  itself  shall  seem 
From  yonder  void  a  bead  upon  the  train 

Of  heaven's  warder  rayed  with  beam  on  beam. 

457 


VARIOUS    POEMS 

Life,  when  the  harper  tunes  his  shrillest  string, 

As  to  low  thunder  lends  a  finer  ear 
Unseen.   Niagara's  slow  vibrating 

Is  but  the  treble  of  the  greater  sphere, 

Whose  lightest  orchestras  such  movements  play 
As  mock  the  forest's  moan,  the  bass  profound 

Of  surges  that  against  deep  barriers  stay 

Their  might,  in  throes  which  shake  the  ancient  ground. 

Will,  consciousness,  the  tenant  lord  of  all, 

Self-tenanted,  is  still  the  wrinkled  wave 
Which  climbs  a  wave  upon  the  clambering  wall 

Beyond,  or  in  the  hollow  seeks  a  grave. 

We  time  the  ray,  we  pulsate  with  the  fling 

Of  ether  —  feel  the  sure  magnetic  thrill 
Make  answer  to  each  sombre  vortex  ring 

Whirled  with  the  whirling  sun  that  binds  us  still ; 

That  binds  us,  bound  itself  from  girth  to  pole 

By  some  unconquerable  deathless  force 
Akin  to  this  which  thinks,  acts,  feels,  —  the  soul 

Of  man,  forever  eddying  like  its  source. 

Passion  and  jest,  the  laugh  and  wail  of  earth, 
High  thought  and  speech,  the  rare  considerings 

Of  beauty  that  to  fairer  art  gives  birth, 
The  winnowing  of  poesy's  swift  wings,  — 

These — though  the  hoary  century  inurn 

Our  great  —  no  gathering  mould  of  time  shall  clod: 

They  bide  their  hour,  they  pass  but  to  return 

With  men,  as  now,  the  progeny  of  God. 
1892. 


SHADOW-LAND 


"DARKNESS   AND   THE   SHADOW 

WAKING,  I  have  been  nigh  to  Death,  — 
Have  felt  the  dullness  of  his  breath 
Whiten  my  cheek  and  numb  my  heart, 
And  wondered  why  he  stayed  his  dart,  — 
Yet  quailed  not,  but  could  meet  him  so, 
As  any  lesser  friend  or  foe. 

But  sleeping,  in  the  dreams  of  night, 
His  phantom  stifles  me  with  fright ! 
O  God  !   what  frozen  horrors  fall 
Upon  me  with  his  visioned  pall: 
The  movelessness,  the  unknown  dread, 
Fair  life  to  pulseless  silence  wed  ! 

And  is  the  grave  so  darkly  deep, 
So  hopeless,  as  it  seems  in  sleep  ? 
Can  our  sweet  selves  the  coffin  hold 
So  dumb  within  its  crumbling  mould  ? 
And  is  the  shroud  so  dank  and  drear 
A  garb,  —  the  noisome  worm  so  near  ? 

Where  then  is  Heaven's  mercy  fled, — 
To  quite  forget  the  voiceless  dead  ? 


THE   ASSAULT    BY   NIGHT 

ALL  night  we  hear  the  rattling  flaw, 

The  casements  shiver  with  each  breath ; 
And  still  more  near  the  foemen  draw, 
The  pioneers  of  Death 
461 


SHADOW-LAND 

Their  grisly  chieftain  comes  : 
He  steals  upon  us  .in  the  night ; 
Call  up  the  guards  !  light  every  light ! 

Beat  the  alarum  drums  ! 

His  tramp  is  at  the  outer  door  ; 

He  bears  against  the  shuddering  walls ; 
Lo  !   what  a  dismal  frost  and  hoar 
Upon  the  window  falls  ! 
Outbar  him  while  ye  may  ! 
Feed,  feed  the  watch-fires  everywhere, — 
Even  yet  their  cheery  warmth  will  scare 
This  thing  of  night  away. 

Ye  cannot !   something  chokes  the  grate 

And  clogs  the  air  within  its  flues, 
And  runners  from  the  entrance-gate 
Come  chill  with  evil  news  : 
The  bars  are  broken  ope  ! 
Ha  !   he  has  scaled  the  inner  wall ! 
But  fight  him  still,  from  hall  to  hall ; 
While  life  remains,  there  's  hope. 

Too  late  !   the  very  frame  is  dust, 

The  locks  and  trammels  fall  apart ; 
He  reaches,  scornful  of  their  trust, 
The  portals  of  the  heart. 
Ay,  take  the  citadel ! 
But  where,  grim  Conqueror,  is  thy  prey  ? 
In  vain  thou  'It  search  each  secret  way, 
Its  flight  is  hidden  well. 

We  yield  thee,  for  thy  paltry  spoils, 

This  shell,  this  ruin  thou  hast  made; 
Its  tenant  has  escaped  thy  toils, 

Though  they  were  darkly  laid. 

462 


THE    DISCOVERER 

Even  now,  immortal,  pure, 
It  gains  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 
A  refuge  in  serener  lands, 

A  heritage  secure. 


THE   SAD    BRIDAL 

WHAT  would  you  do,  my  dear  one  said, 
What  would  you  do,  if  I  were  dead  ? 
If  Death  should  mumble,  as  he  list, 
These  red  lips  which  now  you  kist  ? 
What  would  my  love  do,  were  I  wed 
To  that  ghastly  groom  instead  j 
If  o'er  me,  in  the  chancel,  Death 
Should  cast  his  amaranthine  wreath,  — 
Before  my  eyes,  with  fingers  pale, 
Draw  down  the  mouldy  bridal  veil  ? 
—  Ah  no  !   no  !   it  cannot  be  ! 
Death  would  spare  their  light,  and  flee, 
And  leave  my  love  to  Life  and  me  ! 


THE    DISCOVERER 

I  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 
Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together ! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer, 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 

463 


SHADOW-LAND 

Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  command : 
"  Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover ! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
—  With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 
Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 

How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 
What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound  ? 
Would  that  he  might  return! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush !  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no  !  not  so  ! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  comes  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  climes  his  elders  do  not  know. 
He  has  more  learning  than  appears 
On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thousand  years, 
464 


"THE  .UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY" 

More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 

Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought ; 

He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare, — 

What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 

What  is  their  guise  and  speech 

In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach, — 

And  his  eyes  behold 
Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to  mortal  hearers  told, 

MORS    BENEFICA 

GIVE  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day, 

And  stricken  in  Life's  brave  heat,  with  senses  clear : 
Not  swathed  and  couched  until  the  lines  appear 

Of  Death's  wan  mask  upon  this  withering  clay, 

But  as  that  old  man  eloquent  made  way 

From  Earth,  a  nation's  conclave  hushed  anear  j 
Or  as  the  chief  whose  fates,  that  he  may  hear 

The  victory,  one  glorious  moment  stay. 

Or,  if  not  thus,  then  with  no  cry  in  vain, 
No  ministrant  beside  to  ward  and  weep, 

Hand  upon  helm  I  would  my  quittance  gain 
In  some  wild  turmoil  of  the  waters  deep, 
And  sink  content  into  a  dreamless  sleep 

(Spared  grave  and  shroud)  below  the  ancient  main. 
1893. 


"THE    UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY.' 

COULD  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 

Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low, 
Ah,  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil, 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go? 
465 


SHADOW-LAND 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us,  — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear  ? 

Were  we  quite  sure 

To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only, — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 
Who  would  endure  ? 


INDEXES 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Aaron  Burr's  Wooing,  389. 

Ad  Vatem,  190. 

Ad  Vigilem,  192. 

Alectryon,  243. 

Alice  of  Monmouth,  15. 

All  in  a  Lifetime,  429. 

Amavi,  401. 

Anonyma,  407. 

Apollo,  363. 

Ariel,  201. 

Arnold,  George,  193. 

Assault  by  Night,  The,  461. 

Astra  Caeli,  356. 

At  Twilight,  370. 

Autumn  Song,  371. 

Ballad  of  Lager  Bier,  The,  84. 
Blameless  Prince,  The,  257. 
Bohemia  ;  A  Pilgrimage,  77, 
Byron,  198. 

Captain  Francisca,  349. 

CARIB  SEA,  THE,  323. 

Castle  Island  Light,  328. 

Centuria,  391. 

Christophe,  332. 

Comedian's  Last  Night,  The,  414. 

Constant  Heart,  The,  439. 

Corda  Concordia,  173. 

Country  Sleighing,  114. 

Cousin  Lucrece,  127. 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  417. 

Creole  Lover's  Song,  339. 

Crete,  "250. 

Cuba,  413. 

Custer,  172. 


Darkness  and  the  Shadow,  461. 
Dartmouth  Ode,  152. 
Death     of    Agamemnon,     The 
Aischylos),  234. 


(from 


Death    of    Agamemnon,    The    (from 

Homer),  230 

Death  of  Bryant,  The,  194. 
Descent  into  the  Crater,  The,  395. 
Diamond  Wedding,  The,  99. 
Discoverer,  The,  463. 
Doorstep,  The,  109. 
Duke's  Exequy,  The,  411. 
Dutch  Patrol,  The,  386. 

Edged  Tools,  406. 
Ergo  Iris,  192. 

Estelle,  403. 
Eventide,  449. 

FalstafPs  Song,  382. 

Father  Jardine,  455. 

Fern-Land,  343. 

Fin  de  Siecle,  456. 

Flight  of  the  Birds,  The,  376. 

Freshet,  The,  303. 

Fuit  Ilium,  74. 

Gettysburg,  60. 
Gifford,  205. 
Greeley,  Horace,  164. 
Guests  at  Yule,  381. 

Hand  of  Lincoln,  The,  435. 

Harebell,  452. 

Hawthorne,  183. 

Hay,  John,  216. 

Heart  of  New  England,  The,  1 1 6. 

Hebe,  441. 

Heliotrope,  398. 

Holyoke  Valley,  315. 

Homeward  Bound,  217. 

Hope  Deferred,  400. 

How     Old      Brown    Took      Harper's 

Ferry,  3. 
Huntington  House,  130, 


469 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


H.  van  D.  (A  Toast),  213. 
Hylas,  227. 

Hymn  of  the  West,  212. 
Hypatia,  419. 

Inscriptions,  210. 

IN  WAR  TIME,  i. 

Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for  Gold,  93. 

Jamaica,  337. 

Jean  Prouvaire's  Song  at  the  Barricade, 

375 
J.  G.  H.,  206. 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines,  1 1. 
Keller,  Helen,  450. 
Kennst  Du  ?  325. 

La  Source,  333. 

Le  Jour  du  Rossignol,  416. 

L.  H    S.,  To,  335. 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World,  209. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  60. 

Lord's  Day  Gale,  The,  119. 

Madrigal,  379. 

Martinique  Idyl,  354. 

Mater  Coronata,  146. 

Meridian:  An  Old-Fashioned  Poem,  136. 

Montagu,  363. 

Monument  of  Greeley,  The,  167. 

Morgan,  347. 

Mors  Benefico,  465. 

Mother's  Picture,  A,  400. 

Mountain,  The,  311. 

Music  at  Home,  434. 

My  Godchild,  219. 

News  from  Olympia,  251. 
Nocturne,  380. 

Old  Admiral,  The,  162. 

Old  Love  and  the  New,  The,  no. 

Old  Picture-Dealer,  The,  96. 

On  a  Great  Man  Whose  Mind  is  Cloud 
ing,  207. 

On  the  Death  of  an  Invincible  Soldier, 
207. 

On  White  Carnations  Given  Me  for 
My  Birthday,  211. 


Panama,  353. 

Pan  in  Wall  Street,  90. 

Penelope,  240. 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call,  69- 

Pilgrims,  The,  382. 

POEMS  OF  GREECE,  223. 

POEMS  OF  MANHATTAN,  67. 

POEMS  OF  NATURE,  301. 

POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND,  107. 

POEMS  OF  OCCASION,  133. 

Portrait  d'une  Dame  Espagnole,  451. 

Proem  to  A  Victorian  Anthology,  454. 

Proem    to    ' '  Poems    Now    First    Col' 

lected,"  454. 
Provencal  Lovers,  383. 

Reapers,  The,  225, 

Refuge  in  Nature,  306. 

Restraint,  397. 

Rose  and  the  Jasmine,  The,  340. 

Round  the  Old  Board,  135. 

Sad  Bridal,  The,  463. 

Sargasso  Weed,  327. 

Sea-Change  at  Kelp  Rock,  A,  319. 

Seeking  the  May-Flower,  317. 

70°  North,  220. 

SHADOW-LAND,  459. 

Singer,  The,  361. 

Sister  Beatrice,  422. 

Skull  in  the  Gold  Drift,  The,  430. 

Song  from  a  Drama,  377. 

SONGS  AND  BALLADS,  359. 

Songster,  The,  372. 

Souvenir  de  Jeunesse,  444. 

Spoken  at  Sea,  409. 

Stanzas  for  Music,  376. 

Star  Bearer,  The,  447. 

Summer  Rain,  361. 

Sumter,  9. 

Sun-Dial,  The,  378. 

Surf,  309. 

Swallow,  The,  306. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  To,  211. 

Test,  The,  402. 

Tombe  of  ye  Poet  Chaucer,  Ye,  436. 

Toujours  Amour,  368. 

Treason's  Last  Device,  13. 

Tryst,  The,  369. 


47° 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Ubi  Sunt  Qui  Ante  Nos  ?  180. 
Undiscovered  Country,  The,  465. 

VARIOUS  POEMS,  393. 

Vigil,  A,  445. 

Violet  Eyes,  369. 

Voice  of  the  Western  Wind,  362. 

Waldstein,  To  Dr.,  on  His  Proposal  to 

Excavate  Herculaneum,  214. 
Wanted  —  A  Man,  12. 
Wedding-Day,  The,  385, 


What  the  Winds  Bring,  372. 
Witchcraft,  124. 
With  a  Sprig  of  Heather,  433. 
Woods  and  Waters,  309. 
World  well  Lost,  The,  440. 
Written  at  the  Opening  of  a    House- 
Book,  220. 
W.  S.,  To,  212. 
W.  W.,  198. 

Yale    Ode    for    Commencement  Day, 
H5- 


INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES 

A  cloister  tale,  —  a  strange  and  ancient  thing,  422. 

A  dread  voice  from  the  mountain  cried  to  me,  212. 

A  haunt  the  mountain  roadside  near,  333. 

A  hundred  years,  't  is  writ,  —  O  presage  vain  !  198. 

A  wind  and  a  voice  from  the  North  !   152. 

Abbot  and  monks  of  Westminster,  436. 

Afterward,  soon  as  the  chaste  Persephone  hither  and  thither,  230. 

All  night  we  hear  the  rattling  flaw,  461. 

All  things  on  Earth  that  are  accounted  great,  146. 

Around  his  loins,  when  the  last  breath  had  gone,  455. 

Back  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field,  12. 

Bayard,  awaken  not  this  music  strong,  211. 

Between  the  outer  Keys,  328. 

Bring  no  more  flowers  and  books  and  precious  things  !  400. 

But  come  now,  down  with  the  harvest!  225. 

Came  the  morning  of  that  day,  9. 

Clothed  in  sable,  crowned  with  gold,  411. 

Come,  let  us  burst  the  cerements  and  the  shroud,  309. 

Could  we  but  know,  465. 

Do  you  know  the  blue  of  the  Carib  Sea,  325. 
Do  you  remember  our  charming  times,  366. 

Earth,  let  thy  softest  mantle  rest,  164. 

England  !  since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day,  454. 

Exquisite  tufts  of  perfume  and  of  light,  21 1. 

Fall'n  like  an  eagle  from  his  scaur,  216. 

"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !  '    60. 

From  the  commandant's  quarters  on  Westchester  height,  389. 

Give  me  to  die  unwitting  of  the  day,  465. 

Gone  at  last,  162. 

Good-bye,  Walt!  198. 

"  Grant  him,"  I  said,  "  a  well-earned  name,      452. 

Great  Ares,  whose  tempestuous  godhood  found,  243. 

Had  I,  my  love  declared,  the  tireless  wing,  306. 
Hark!  through  the  archways  old,  145. 

473 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

Harp  of  New  England  song,  183. 

Health  to  the  poet,  scholar,  wit,  divine,  213. 

Hendrich  Van  Ghelt  of  Monmouth  shore,  15. 

Here  where  the  curfew,  127. 

Hither,  where  a  woven  roof,  343. 

How  many  years  have  made  their  flights,  315. 

How  now  are  the  Others  faring  ?   Where  sit  They  all  in  state  ?  180. 

How  was  it  then  with  Nature  when  the  soul,  194. 

have  a  little  kinsman,  463. 

know  an  island  which  the  sun,  337. 

know  not  if  moonlight  or  starlight,  377. 

loved  :  and  in  the  morning  sky,  401. 

sat  beneath  a  fragrant  tasselled  tree,  434. 

walk  in  the  morning  twilight,  398. 

walk  the  lane's  dim  hollow,  445. 
If  I  had  been  a  rich  man's  girl,  407. 
In  fallow  college  days,  Tom  Harland,  84. 
In  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft,  119. 
In  January,  when  down  the  dairy,  114. 
Is  it  naught  ?  Is  it  naught,  413. 

John  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer,  3. 
Just  at  this  full  noon  of  summer,  319. 
Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front,  90. 

King  Henri  is  King  Stephen's  peer,  332. 

Ladies,  Ladies  Huntington,  your  father  served,  we  know,  130. 

Lady,  had  the  lot  been  mine,  433. 

Long  since,  there  was  a  Princess  of  the  blood,  258. 

Look  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand,  435. 

Love,  the  winds  long  to  lure  you  to  their  home,  354. 

Love,  these  vagrant  songs  may  woo  you,  335. 

Mute,  sightless  visitant,  450. 

Night  wind,  whispering  wind,  339. 

No  clouds  are  in  the  morning  sky,  371.  , 

No  sandalled  footsteps  fall,  173. 

Noel!   Noel!  381. 

Not  for  ourselves  alone  the  God,  who  fathered  that  stripling,  227. 

Not  thus,  Ulysses,  with  a  tender  word,  240. 

Not  yet !    No,  no,  — you  would  not  quote,  414. 

Now  dies  the  rippling  murmur  of  the  strings,  340. 

Now  making  exit  to  the  outer  vast,  456. 

O  lark  !  sweet  lark  !  361. 

O  long  are  the  years  of  waiting,  when  lovers'  hearts  are  bound,  116. 

O  Love  !  Love !  Love  !  what  times  were  those,  99. 

474 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 

O  pilgrim  from  the  Indies  !  382. 

O  Thou,  whose  glorious  orbs  on  high,  212. 

O  what  a  sore  campaign,  207. 

O  wretched  woman  indeed,  and  O  most  wise,  234. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  demons  who  fasten  on  human  hearts,  4°3- 

Off  Maracaibo's  wall,  349. 

Oh,  what  a  set  of  Vagabundos,  347. 

Olympia  ?  Yes,  Strange  tidings  from  the  city,  251. 

Once  more,  dear  mother  Earth,  we  stand,  167. 

Once  more  on  the  fallow  hillside,  as  of  old,  I  lie  at  rest,  no. 

One  by  one  they  died,  74. 

One  can  never  quite  forget,  369. 

Only  the  sunny  hours,  378. 

Our  great-great-grandpapas  had  schooled,  126. 

Out  from  the  seething  Stream,  327. 

Out,  out,  Old  Age  !   aroint  ye  !  417. 

Over  the  Carib  Sea  to-night,  356. 

Poet,  in  thy  sacred  verse,  397. 
Poet,  wherefore  hither  bring,  257. 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin,  368. 

Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon,  363. 

Rosemary!   could  we  but  give  you,  219. 

Round  the  old  board  once  more  we  feast  together  !  135. 

Sadde  songe  is  out  of  season,  440. 

See,  what  a  beauty!   Half-shut  eyes,  442. 

Seven  women  loved  him.    When  the  wrinkled  pall,  402. 

She  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes  !  400. 

Sleeping,  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast  mine,  369. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  1 1. 

Soe,  Mistress  Anne,  faire  neighbour  myne,  124. 

Sons  of  New  England,  in  the  fray,  13. 

Splendors  of  morning  the  billow-crests  brighten,  309. 

Sweetheart,  name  the  day  for  me,  385. 

That  border  land  'twixt  Day  and  Night  be  mine,  210. 

That  sovereign  thought  obscured  ?  That  vision  clear,  207. 

That  year  our  Equinoctial  came  along,  303. 

That  year?  Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  still,  441. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last,  109. 

The  hand  that  drew  thee  lies  in  Roman  soil,  451. 

The  second  landing-place.    Above,  96. 

The  silent  world  is  sleeping,  380. 

The  sunset  darkens  in  the  west,  370. 

The  sunset  fires  old  Portsmouth  spires,  449. 

The  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round,  317. 

The  tryst  is  kept.   How  fares  it  with  each  one,  136. 

475 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 

Then,  shuddering  an  instant,  with  the  fear,  395. 

There  were  seven  angels  erst  that  spanned,  447. 

This  was  a  magician's  cell,  205. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word,  376. 

Thou  shalt  have  sun  and  shower  from  heaven  above,  429. 

Thou,  —  whose  endearing  hand  once  laid  in  sooth,  454. 

Though  Arkadi's  shattered  pile,  250. 

'T  is  fifteen  hundred  years,  you  say,  419. 

Trailing  hemlock,  serried  spruce,  220. 

'T  was  the  season  offcasts,  when  the  blithe  birds  had  met,  416. 

Twelve  hundred  miles  and  more,  409. 

Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands,  311. 

Two  towers  the  old  Cathedral  lifts,  353. 

Vainly,  O  burning  Poets  !  363. 
Voice  of  the  western  wind  !  362. 

Waking,  I  have  been  nigh  to  Death,  461. 

Warder  at  ocean's  gate,  209. 

Wave,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  soldiers  of  the  North,  60. 

We  stood  around  the  dreamless  form,  193. 

Weary  at  length  of  the  ancestral  gloom,  192. 

Well,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown,  406. 

Wert  thou  on  earth  to-day,  immortal  one,  201. 

What  ho  !  dumb  jester,  cease  to  grin  and  mask  it  !  430. 

What  seest  thou,  when  the  peaks  above  thee  stand,  192. 

What!   shall  that  sudden  blade,  172. 

What 's  this  !   your  tall  ship  sighted  at  the  line  ?  220. 

What  would  you  do,  my  dear  one  said,  463. 

When  buttercups  are  blossoming,  77. 

When  Christmas-Eve  is  ended,  386. 

When  Sibyl  kept  her  tryst  with  me,  the  harvest  moon  was  rounded,  444. 

When  the  rude  world's  relentless  war  has  pressed,  306. 

Where  nowadays  the  Battery  lies,  69. 

Where  's  he  that  died  o'  Wednesday  ?  382. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  cold  ?  372. 

Whither  away,  Robin,  376. 

Whittier!  the  Land  that  loves  thee,  she  whose  child,  190. 

Who  knew  him,  loved  him.   His  the  longing  heart,  206. 

Why  should  I  constant  be  ?  379. 

With  proud,  uplifted  head,  217. 

Within  our  summer  hermitage,  372. 

Within  the  garden  of  Beaucaire,  383. 

Yes,  Doctor,  surely  we  recall,  214. 

Zounds  !   how  the  price  went  flashing  through,  93. 


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